Chapter 108: You’re Calling Me A Problem?
The elevator doors part with a whisper of polished steel, revealing the executive floor.
The corridor stretches before me, quiet and immaculate. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls line one side, offering an unbroken view of the city below—a sprawling tapestry of lights flickering against the deep indigo of night.
My hand rests in my pocket, fingers brushing against the cool edge of my phone. Each step echoes across the marble floor, measured and deliberate.
Why did he call me here?
The thought drifts through my mind, unanswered. It’s not unusual for my father to summon me. But something about tonight feels different.
Secretary Joe appears from a side corridor, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble. His eyes find me, and he stops mid-stride, bowing with practiced precision.
"Good evening, Mr. Ellis."
I acknowledge him with the barest nod.
"Is my father in?"
"Yes, sir. The chairman has been waiting for you."
Waiting.
The word lingers longer than it should.
I walk past Secretary Joe without another word. My steps don’t falter. But something shifts.
Waiting for me.
That means something important.
The heavy dark door of the chairman’s office looms before me. I don’t knock. I never do.
I grasp the handle, feel the cool weight of brass beneath my palm, and push the door open.
The room beyond is vast, draped in shadows softened by the golden glow of dimmed lamps. My father sits on the leather couch near the glass wall, his silhouette etched against the glittering cityscape behind him. A file rests on his lap, his eyes fixed on its contents. He doesn’t look up as I enter.
The door closes behind me with a soft click—the sound of a lock settling into place, of a room sealing itself off from the rest of the world.
"You’re never going to learn manners, are you?" His voice is calm, unhurried, carrying the weight of years of repetition. "Entering without knocking."
I cross the room and lower myself onto the couch opposite him. One leg rests over the other. I lean back, letting the leather embrace my shoulders.
"I’m not your staff."
He closes the file and sets it on the table, the motion deliberate, almost ceremonial. He still doesn’t look at me.
"But you’re my son."
I don’t answer. The silence stretches between us.
He removes his glasses and sets them beside the file. For a moment, he closes his eyes, drawing a slow, measured breath that seems to carry the exhaustion of a lifetime.
"Why did you call me here?"
He opens his eyes, and when he looks at me, there’s something different in his gaze. Something I don’t recognize.
"I want to talk about something important."
His voice is quieter than usual. Softer, as if the words themselves are fragile and must be handled with care.
"Ellis..." He pauses, letting my name settle in the space between us. "I’m asking you one last time. When are you planning to join the business?"
I don’t answer. I just sit there, letting his question linger between us like dust suspended in a shaft of light.
My father’s gaze drifts to the glass wall, settling on the city beyond—the endless sprawl of lights, the distant pulse of a world that never sleeps.
"That day..." He begins, then stops. He clears his throat, almost imperceptibly. "When your mother and I saw you with Silas. Smiling. Really smiling."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I finally felt like I could breathe."
The admission catches me off guard.
"Seeing you like that. Like other normal people. Happy with their partner." His voice drops lower. "I finally stopped worrying."
I stay still. Listening. Somehow, that’s harder than arguing.
"Ellis, I know you hate that I forced you into this marriage. That I made you marry someone you didn’t want."
He turns back to me, his eyes holding mine with a weight I’ve rarely seen. "But now..." A faint smile touches his lips. "You can feel it. My decision wasn’t bad."
He leans forward slightly. "Parents always try to do what’s best for their children." His voice is steady. Gentle. "Now it’s time to join the business. To be responsible. Like a grown man."
A pause.
"So the people who care about you can be proud of you."
I stay silent.
This doesn’t sound like my father.
The man sitting across from me feels unfamiliar somehow. Less like the chairman of Roselle Group. More like a parent who has spent years worrying and is finally letting me see it.
He looks at me, his gaze unwavering.
"I’m telling you the truth. You don’t need to read my mind—"
"Fine."
The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it. He freezes. His eyes widen just a fraction.
"Fine. I’ll join the business."
He blinks. For a moment, he simply stares at me, as if he’s waiting for the punchline.
His mind whispers, barely audible across the space between us, yet loud in the silence.
{Wait... is he actually agreeing?}
"You’re ready?"
I nod. Look away, toward the glass wall, toward the city that never stops moving.
"Yes. But I won’t read minds for you." My voice is flat, leaving no room for negotiation. "It’s disgusting. Hearing people’s useless thoughts."
Something brightens in his expression.
"Okay." His voice is lighter than I’ve heard it in years. "I won’t force you."
I stand. Smooth my jacket. The fabric feels different against my shoulders—heavier somehow. More real.
"Then I’m going."
I turn and start toward the door.
"Ellis."
I stop and glance back.
"Is there something else?"
He rises from the couch. The leather settles softly as he stands.
A smile rests on his lips—not the restrained expression he usually wears, but something warmer. More genuine.
"What?" I ask. "Why are you smiling?"
He walks toward me slowly, as if unwilling to rush the moment.
"I’m happy today." His voice is lighter than before, touched by something I haven’t heard in years. "A problem solved itself."
My brows draw together instantly.
"You’re calling me a problem?"
He laughs.
Deep. Warm. Genuine.
The sound fills the room, pushing back the silence that has lived between us for years. Then he takes one more step and pulls me into a sudden embrace.
I freeze. My breath catches. For a moment, I forget how to move.
His arms wrap around me, firm and steady. He pats my back lightly, a gesture so familiar it pulls me years into the past.
"My little troublemaker son..." His voice is soft, thick with something I refuse to name. "It’s been years since you gave your father a hug."
I stay still. I don’t say anything.
For a moment, my hands remain at my sides. Then, slowly—reluctantly—they rise.
I hold him back.
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