Page 11 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

Two days before the birthday party...

I was at lunch with a client when the first text came in—anonymous, no name, no number, just a message:

"You should come back to the office. Now."

I stared at it, blinking.

A joke? Spam? Some weird sales tactic? I glanced at the sender again, just a blank gray circle.

No contact info.

No clue.

My first instinct was to dismiss it.

Probably a prank.

Or a wrong number.

I slid my phone face-down on the crisp white tablecloth and forced a smile, trying to stay locked into the conversation.

Across from me, Grant Velez was mid-pitch, leaning in, slicing the air with his fork for emphasis, totally locked into his charts and projections.

Something about Asia's Q3 recovery and how we were poised to capitalize if we acted before Q2 closed.

I nodded in the right places, but his voice was already fading beneath a low, steady thrum in my chest.

A vibration that wasn't coming from the phone anymore, it was deeper than that.

Instinct.

I took a sip of water.

Glanced down at my watch.

Then at the phone again, as if it might offer some clarification now that I'd waited.

It didn't.

Just that one line glowing against the lock screen.

Seven words that shouldn't have meant anything.

"You don't want to miss this."

A flicker of something—unease, maybe—tensed in my spine. I checked the number again. Nothing. Just the words. And suddenly the steak in front of me looked too red, the room too loud. I laughed it off with some muttered line abou.

"corporate drama,"

dropped my napkin on the table, and walked out fast.

By the time I reached the street, the third message was already waiting:

"She's not who you think she is. Neither is he."

I stopped moving.

I stood there on the corner, traffic rumbling past, and let those words settle like stones in my stomach.

I told myself this was a joke, that I was overreacting.

That the texts were nothing, just someone screwing around.

But as I rode the elevator up to the 26th floor, alone, something in the air shifted.

The office was still alive with its usual midday rhythm.

Phones rang in the distance, a few people chatted near the kitchenette, the soft hum of printers and the clack of keyboards filling the air like background noise.

A group from marketing was gathered around someone's screen, laughing over a video.

There was Leonard, the janitor, who was leaning on his mop handle, saw me and gave me a familiar nod.

I went to dad's boardroom.

The blinds were half-drawn.

The glass muted the sound, but not completely.

And as I walked past the private kitchenette heard a voice from behind that glass.

Laura.

Her voice, light and easy, slipped through the door And then, James.

Low, smooth, familiar.

And just like that, the rest of the noise around me dropped into the background, muffled by something sharper, more urgent.

I slowed my pace. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to listen.

"It's that espresso machine. The one in the west kitchen? It spits like it's offended every time I press a button."

Then came his laugh.

"I told you to use mine. I've got the good stuff."

Their footsteps moved across the boardroom floor, slow, casual. Then Laura again, voice softer now.

"Yeah, well... you're spoiling me."

A silence stretched between them, charged and too familiar.

"That's the idea,"

James said, his voice low.

"You'll need spoiling soon. When you're CEO, you won't have time for espresso drama."

My breath caught. CEO?

She laughed, quiet, tired. There was a rustle. Maybe him brushing her hair back. Maybe her stepping closer. She lowered her voice and sighed:

"I'm tired of acting, James."

My father's voice came back smooth, measured. Controlled.

"We need time,"

he said.

"You know that."

She didn't respond right away. And when she did, it was quieter, but sharp. Bitterness wrapped in silk.

"But I can't stand it. Every time I have to act like I care for him, it feels like I'm stabbing you in the back. It's like I'm betraying everything we've been through, pretending to be his."

Something inside me twisted. I felt my breath falter, caught somewhere between rage and disbelief. There was a silence then, so dense and absolute it felt like a vacuum, pulling the air straight from my lungs. The buzz of the office outside faded. The world reduced to this glass door and the two people behind it. James finally spoke, and his voice had shifted. Lower now. Unmistakably cold.

"That's the point love, we need Thomas, for now."

Love. For now. The words landed like a punch.

Then, I heard movement. A hush of fabric. A pause. And something intimate. A sound I couldn't immediately place, but one I understood in my gut. A touch. A kiss. Maybe more. Something I was never supposed to hear. Never supposed to know.

"After Portugal,"

he murmured, his tone heavy with promise.

"we'll take care of everything."

I stood frozen outside the boardroom, pulse pounding in my ears, the filtered office light suddenly too bright, the air too thin. I felt like the floor had just tilted under me. I backed away from the door like it had burned me. My mind went blank, but my chest filled with something sour, something old and heavy.

Shame. Hurt. Fury.

All my life, I'd been chasing a man who never once looked back. Every decision I made, the grades I fought for, the internships I killed myself over, the tailored suits, the measured words, the late nights trying to prove I belonged in rooms he built, all of it had been an offering. A desperate attempt to be seen. To matter.

I told myself he was hard on me because he saw something in me. That the silence wasn't indifference, but pressure , the kind that turns coal into diamond. I believed the bar he set so high was proof that he believed I could reach it.

But that was a lie. A pretty one. A survival tactic. Because the truth hit harder, quieter. None of it had ever been about me. It had been about the version of me that fit his blueprint — the obedient son, the heir with clean hands, the puppet who didn't realize he had strings.

Everything was a stage. A script I hadn't written, rehearsed without knowing I was in the play. All those father-son moments I'd stored like treasures — the rare praise, the grudging nods, the quiet approval when I echoed his opinions — none of it was real.

It wasn't love. It wasn't pride. It was control. And now, looking back, I couldn't tell which moments had ever been mine. Which choices were truly mine. If any of them were. Because when you spend your whole life performing for someone else's validation, it gets harder and harder to hear your own voice.

Harder still to believe it ever mattered. I walked out, numb. I should've confronted them. I should've screamed. But I didn't. I just kept walking, with their words still echoing in my head like poison, I can't stop asking myself: Why? Why the act? What do they stand to gain? Power? Control? Or was I just in the way?

God. I can't believe I jeopardized my marriage chasing his approval and craving her attention. Sacrificed late nights, weekends, anniversaries, all so I could be seen. So I could be chosen. I ignored the way my wife looked at me when I came home late again. I brushed off the concern in her voice when she asked about Laura, told her she was overthinking it, that it was all professional.

But I was a man starving for validation. And Laura, Laura was smart. She knew exactly when to lean close, when to laugh, when to ask questions that made me feel interesting again. Like I mattered. Like I wasn't just James's son, I was my own man. Except I wasn't. I was a prop. A pawn. A shield they used so no one would look too closely at them. And I let it happen.

I sat in my car for a long time. I wasn't crying. I wasn't angry. I was... nothing. Numb, maybe. Hollowed out from the inside like something carved away piece by piece. I don't remember putting the keys in the ignition. I don't remember making the call. But somehow, I ended up parked outside a sharp-glassed high-rise on the other side of the city, staring up at the name I swore I'd never walk under: Graham Langley.

Shark in a suit. My father's oldest rival. The kind of man whose smile made other CEOs flinch. The kind of man I'd been taught to despise, until now. Langley was at the window when I stepped in. He turned slowly, the skyline burning behind him like fire through glass. When he saw me, he didn't bother hiding the smirk.

"Didn't expect to hear from you,"

he said.

"Let me guess. Daddy dearest finally showed his color."

I didn't answer. I just walked in and dropped into the leather chair across from his desk, still wearing my disbelief like a second skin. My mouth was dry. My mind still reeling. I felt like I was watching myself from outside my body, some third-person version of me too ashamed to inhabit the wreckage directly.

"It's worse than that,"

Then I told him everything.

I said finally, my voice low, hollow.

"He used me. But I don't understand why he's been pushing this narrative, me and Laura. The subtle comments. The way he pairs us up for meetings. The jokes he never corrects. It's like he wants people to think we're together. It's... it's messed up."

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. Saying them out loud made it feel more real, and more disturbing. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as a slow smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.

"It is messed up,"

he said mildly.

"But go on. I might see what he's doing. Sometimes it takes a wolf to recognize another one's tracks."

"He encouraged it,"

I said.

"He'd laugh when people joked about Laura and me. Never corrected them. Sometimes he'd even fuel it. He started giving us joint projects. Assigning her to sit in on meetings that had nothing to do with her role. At first I thought he was grooming us both for leadership... I don't know. Or maybe he was finally seeing me as someone who could carry his name forward."

Langley gave a quiet laugh, not cruel—but clos.

"You thought it was legacy. Turns out it was leverage."

I blinked. The word cut deep. He gestured loosely, voice calm, like he was explaining a business model.

"Look, it's not complicated. If Laura's seen with you, then no one's looking at your father. She can rise fast, stay close to the real power, and the entire company assumes it's because she's your shadow—not his."

I leaned forward, trying to make sense of it all.

"But why go through all that trouble? He could've kept her close without dragging me into it."

Langley's eyes darkened just slightly.

"Because you're the alibi, Thomas. The human firewall. The clean-cut son with a work ethic and a decent public image. As long as people think you're the one she's attached to, your father gets to stay untouchable. Any whisper of favoritism? Blame it on office romance. The kind that's awkward, but forgivable. What would've looked like corruption now just looks like poor judgment—and your poor judgment, not his."

I sat back, cold. He was right. I'd been used, beautifully, precisely, and with absolute deniability. Langley watched me closely, then said, softer now:

"You weren't the heir. You were the screen."

He added.

"and that's the Nepotism Shield in action."

I frowned.

"The what?"

"In corporate terms?"

he said, eyes glittering.

"By presenting herself as your partner instead of your father's, Laura's rise through the company reads like soft nepotism. Tasteless? Sure. But survivable. It's the kind of thing people roll their eyes at, not call legal over. She's not jumping five pay grades because she's sleeping with the CEO—at least not on paper. She's just the girlfriend of the heir apparent. Who's going to dig too deep into that?"

I swallowed hard. My stomach twisted as the weight of it began to settle. The optics. The jokes. The way people at conferences used to smirk when Laura stood next to me, resting her hand lightly on my arm, as if it were natural. As if it were true.

I started, shaking my head.

"I never—she was never my—"

Langley cut me off with a wave of his hand, voice sharp.

"Doesn't matter."

He leaned back again, folding his hands with deliberate patience, like a man watching the final pieces fall into place.

"It's not about what's true. It's about what's visible. And from where I'm sitting, she's done a hell of a job staying close enough to you to block the view of your father. That's the brilliance of it. Everyone sees her with you. She shares your car from events. She leaves meetings with you. They've engineered this narrative perfectly."

He paused, then added with a wry twist to his lips.

"No one questions why she's in the boardroom if they think she's warming your bed."

I flinched. The words hit harder than I expected. I opened my mouth to deny it again, but it felt pointless. The damage had already been done, and worse, it had been curated.

Langley's expression turned analytical.

"And if you've ever signed off on one of her initiatives, her department budgets, hiring approvals, even as a courtesy..."

"I haven't,"

I said quickly, the words snapping out before I could think. Too fast. Too defensive.

Langley's eyes narrowed, catching it.

"But you haven't objected either, have you?"

Langley said.

"That's called Ratification by Silence, Thomas. And it's deadly in court. Especially in a company like your father's. If no one raises the alarm, the system assumes everything is clean. The board sees your name on a memo or an internal approval and thinks, 'Well, the son signed off. Must be aboveboard.' Even if you didn't know what you were agreeing to."

I sat back hard, the leather of the chair groaning beneath me. My breath turned shallow, like the oxygen had thinned. Langley didn't stop. He could smell the fracture.

"That's the real con. It's not just what they did, it's how they did it through you."

He paused, studying me like a man watching a chess piece realize it's been a pawn all along.

"Her rise looks plausible because of you. You're the heir. The golden boy. The fresh face of the next generation. People assumed Laura's climb was tied to your influence, not your father's manipulation. They think you backed her. Or better yet—fell for her. That's the story your father let everyone believe."

He gave a slow shrug, voice sharpening at the edges.

"And that story? It's convenient. It's neat. It's just unprofessional enough to be believable, but not so messy that it threatens anyone's job, reputation, or credibility. People roll their eyes, maybe make a joke or two at your expense, but they don't dig. They don't question why a junior exec is suddenly in every high-level strategy meeting."

I gripped the arms of the chair, fingers digging into the leather. My face. My name. My silence. That's what shielded them. They hadn't just played me for a fool, they'd drafted me into it. Willing participant. Silent witness. Corporate camouflage.

"

Let's not forget,"

he said.

"her looking like your mistress isn't just scandalous. It's strategic. It undermines your marriage, makes your wife question you, distracts you at work. And while you're busy explaining rumors and patching things up at home, she's slipping into your seat at the table. Seamlessly. Quietly."

He stopped and added.

"But my gut? It's screaming that she's not just after your position or your power. She's after the whole damn empire."

"They really covered every angle,"

I said quietly.

Langley smiled, a slow, hungry thing that didn't reach his eyes.

"Not every angle. They underestimated your threshold. Your dignity. And—well..."

He stood, buttoning his jacket.

"They forgot about me."

A chill slid down my spine.

"You want to take him down."

He looked at me with something that wasn't quite satisfaction, but close.

"I've been waiting to take him down for twenty years. Watching him build his little empire out of mirrors and smoke. Now I've got you."

I stared at him.

"So what now?" I asked.

"Now,"

he said.

"you decide if you want to be the weapon he never saw coming."

I didn't move. My hands were fists in my lap.

"You're not just a pawn, Thomas,"

Langley said.

"You're the whole damn board now. Question is: are you ready to flip it?"

I looked him in the eye.

"I'm ready," I said.

Then he paused, tapping his pen.

"You'll need help, Thomas. Have you told your mother?"

I hesitated.

"She won't listen. She's... loyal."

"Still. Try,"

Langley said, his voice sharp with intent.

"If your mother has anything on him—emails, signed authorizations, a misplaced ledger—we can use it. Her testimony could destroy him in court. She's not powerless."

I shook my head slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on my chest.

"Don't hold your breath. She won't do it. She'd rather drown quietly than drag him under with her."

Langley tilted his head, watching me.

"She's planning his birthday party,"

I added bitterly.

"Putting together seating charts and playlists like the last twenty years haven't been a lie. And Laura's invited. She has no idea she's inviting his mistress into her house. Can you believe that?"

Langley didn't flinch. If anything, his expression brightened slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.

"Good,"

he said.

"We can use that."

I blinked. "Use it?"

He leaned forward.

"Think about it. That party is the perfect stage. If he really wants to protect the illusion, he'll double down. He'll parade Laura as your plus-one again—tighten the narrative. Smile for the cameras. Maybe even overcorrect with your mother, just to kill any suspicion. The whole 'devoted husband' performance or show affection to another woman, not Laura."

It made my skin crawl. "So what?"

I asked.

"I'm supposed to just... stand there? Smile while he gaslights my mother? Pretend Laura means something to me when I can barely look at her?"

Langley's voice was calm, controlled.

"Yes. For now. Because if you shift too suddenly, they'll know something's wrong. If you push Laura away, if you stop playing the part, they'll get nervous. Defensive. They'll cover their tracks. We don't want that. We want them confident. Careless."

I looked away. My throat felt tight, my hands fists in my lap.

"So I'm just supposed to let him humiliate her? Keep lying to my mother's face?"

Langley's expression softened, but only just.

"Thomas, I'm not asking you to lie for him. I'm asking you to let him lie, while we watch. Let him dig the hole deeper. The closer he thinks he is to winning, the louder his mistakes will get. That party? That's not a celebration—it's a trap."

I stayed silent, jaw clenched.

"Play along,"

he said again, voice like cold steel.

"Because when it breaks, it has to break loudly. Publicly. And on your terms, not his."

"This isn't just about my parents anymore,"

I said, voice low.

"October's going to be there. She's already hurting.. That maybe there was something between Laura and me. If I play along... I'll be hurting her even more.."

Langley's eyes sharpened, calculating.

"Then make it count,"

he said.

"If you're going to hurt her by staying in this, make sure it leads somewhere. Make sure it's not for nothing."

That sat like lead in my gut. I could survive being used by my father. I could survive being cast as the fool. But watching October's heart break quietly in a room full of liars?

How could I come back from that?

The Birthday Party..

When October bolted, her heels clicking fast against the stone walkway, her shoulders stiff, her breath sharp and uneven, I ran after her without thinking. Panic and shame churned in my chest like a storm.

I called her name once—twice—but she didn't stop. Didn't even glance back. The way she moved, like she couldn't get away from me fast enough, told me everything. I had failed her. Not just tonight. Long before that. I had stood still while the lie grew around us, and now I was chasing after the woman I loved like I was chasing after a ghost.

My wife was leaving me, and I knew deep down that this might be it. Even if I'd already made the decision to distance myself from Laura, it might not matter anymore. The damage could already be done, too visible, too loud, too late to undo. The air outside was cool and damp with evening. The manicured hedges blurred past me as I jogged down the curved path toward the gate, but then I saw her.

My mother.

She stood motionless just beyond the circle of porch light, half-shrouded in shadows. Alone. Her arms crossed over her chest, her face unreadable. For the first time in my life, she didn't look like she belonged in the house behind her. She looked like she was keeping vigil outside it.

"She left,"

she said quietly.

I stopped short, breath catching.

"I know. I need to go after her. I have to talk to her. I need to explain that I'm not with Laura, that I never—"

She cut me off with a strange, hollow laugh. It wasn't bitter. It was tired. Worn out. She turned her face toward me, "Thomas,"

she said, softly but clearly.

"I know. Trust me. I know everything."

I stared at her, stunned. Her gaze shifted toward the house. Her voice dropped into something quieter, colder.

"I think it's time he pays for it. For all of it."

Then she turned her eyes on me, sharp, hard, deadly still.

It wasn't the look of a mother.

Not the one I remembered.

Not the warm smile she wore at garden parties, or the tight-lipped patience she used to wield like armor when my father spoke over her at dinner.

This wasn't the pearl-clad diplomat.

This wasn't the poised hostess who smoothed tension with a smile and carried a thousand bruises in silence, all in the name of keeping the family whole.

No.

This was someone else.

This was the woman beneath all that, stripped bare of pretense, hollowed out by years of deception, and finally done pretending she couldn't taste the rot in her own home.

The fury behind her eyes wasn't loud.

It was quieter than rage.

But heavier.

Like a loaded gun resting on the table between us.

She looked at me, and I could feel every year she'd spent swallowing betrayal like glass, shards of it lodged in her throat, and for the first time, I saw what it looked like when someone stopped choking and started sharpening the edges instead.

"I'm working on it, Mom,"

I said, my voice low, a whisper laced with heat, brittle with the weight of everything I hadn't said before. It wasn't just an answer. It was a vow. A quiet, burning promise buried beneath years of silence and resentment.

She didn't nod. She didn't soften. She turned, slowly, deliberately, and started to walk away. Then she stopped. Without looking back, she said it like a verdict:

"Good. I'm in."

Perfect. Then let his crown fall—and may it cut on the way down.