Page 31 of Price of Victory (The Saints of Westmont U #5)
I settled into the chair beside his bed, studying his face for signs of the stroke that had changed everything. But he seemed remarkably recovered, more like himself than he’d been in years.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better every day. The doctors are pleased with my progress.” He set aside his papers and focused his full attention on me, something that had become increasingly rare as I’d gotten older. “I’ve missed you, son.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
We talked for a few minutes about inconsequential things, about his physical therapy, my classes, and the weather. It was the kind of easy conversation we hadn’t shared in years, and I found myself relaxing despite my anxiety about what was coming.
But then, as I started to get up for coffee and breakfast, the mask slipped back into place.
“I’m so glad you’re here to take your rightful place,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of expectation and inevitability. “There’s so much work to be done.”
The pricks and needles of anxiety started immediately, spreading from my chest outward until my entire body felt electrified with dread. Rightful place. As if my entire existence had been leading up to this moment, as if I’d been born specifically to inherit his empire and continue his legacy.
I mumbled something noncommittal and escaped to the kitchen, but the feeling followed me like a shadow.
By evening, the trap had been fully set. We sat around the dining room table like a normal family, the same mahogany surface where I’d done homework as a child and learned table manners and been lectured about the importance of maintaining our family’s reputation.
My mother began the conversation with the kind of corporate efficiency she brought to everything, outlining exactly what role they envisioned for me in the company’s recovery. I listened with growing unease as they painted a picture of my future that looked suspiciously like a gilded cage.
“You’d start as senior vice president of strategic development,” she explained, cutting her salmon with surgical precision. “With a clear path to executive vice president within two years and COO by the time you’re thirty.”
“The board is eager to see fresh leadership,” my father added. “Young blood to guide us into the next phase of growth.”
They had it all mapped out, every step of my professional ascension carefully planned and timed for maximum impact.
I would be the public face of the company’s revitalization, the charismatic heir apparent who would reassure investors and charm reporters and generally project confidence during uncertain times.
“Your natural charisma will more than compensate for any lack of experience,” my mother continued. “And you’ll learn quickly. You always have.”
The pressure mounted with each word, settling on my chest like a lead blanket. Sweat began to bead on my forehead despite the perfectly controlled temperature of the dining room. My grip on my fork tightened until the metal bit into my palm, and finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I slammed the utensil against the table hard enough to make the water glasses jump, the sharp sound echoing in the suddenly silent room.
“Sorry,” I said immediately, but the damage was done. They were both staring at me with expressions of shock and concern, and I felt like I was trapped in a spotlight with nowhere to hide.
I looked from one parent to the other, chewing my lip as I tried to find words for feelings I’d been carrying around my entire life. Finally, I shook my head.
“I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?” my father asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Of course you can,” my mother insisted. “You have everything it takes to succeed in this business. Your charisma, your intelligence, your education…”
“Alright, maybe I can,” I interrupted, surprising myself with my own vehemence. “But I won’t. I don’t want it. I never wanted any of it. Don’t you see?”
“I struggle to see what you mean,” my father said carefully.
And that’s when everything I’d been holding back for twenty-two years came pouring out.
“I’ve never had a chance to make my own choices!” The words erupted from me like pressure from a broken valve. “Not once in my entire life have I been allowed to decide what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be, what kind of future I wanted to build.”
“That’s not true,” my mother protested. “We let you play hockey…”
“Let me?” I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “You mean after I fought and bargained and practically went on a hunger strike to convince you to allow me this one thing? After years of being dragged to corporate events and posed for family photos and trained to charm donors at charity galas?”
“Aiden…”
“I missed out on my entire childhood because of the spotlight you put me in. I never got to just be a kid, to make mistakes or have awkward phases or figure out who I was without cameras watching my every move. And now, just when I’m finally getting close to something that might actually matter, you want to take that away, too? ”
“This is your father’s life’s work,” my mother said, her voice rising. “His legacy…”
“And what about my life? What about my legacy?” I was standing now, though I couldn’t remember getting up. “We have more money than we could spend in ten lifetimes. When is it enough? When do we get to just exist without constantly striving for more power, more influence, more control?”
“Money?” my mother scoffed. “You think this is about money? This is about building something meaningful, something that will outlast all of us. And frankly, if you’re so bothered by the wealth your father has provided, why don’t you try living without it?”
The challenge hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I could see Rhett as clearly as if he were standing right there.
Rhett, who had access to more money than most people could imagine but chose to live simply.
Rhett, who was happiest in his tiny dorm bed or sharing gas station coffee on road trips.
Rhett, who had shown me that the best moments in life didn’t require expensive backdrops or luxury accommodations.
“Perhaps I should,” I said quietly, thinking of all the times I’d been happiest. Wearing his old hoodie that was soft from countless washings. Sleeping in his narrow bed with his arm around my waist. Sharing bags of chips on the rooftop while he told me stories about growing up in Chicago.
Had I ever enjoyed those high-end restaurants my mother dragged me to? Did I need the car collection or the expensive watches or the meaningless wall art that filled our houses? What had any of it actually added to my life beyond status and the illusion of sophistication?
“Perhaps I don’t need any of it,” I continued, my voice growing stronger. “And if that’s the price I have to pay for a life free of all this pressure and stress, so be it.”
My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her carefully controlled mask slipping to reveal genuine alarm. But my father leaned back in his chair, studying my face with something that might have been understanding.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
“Richard, you can’t mean this,” my mother said sharply.
“I do,” he replied, his voice firm. “I mean it with my full heart. I built my life around a mission I loved, work that felt meaningful and important to me. If I failed to show you what there is to love in this business, that’s my failing, Aiden. Not yours.”
The unexpected support should have felt like victory, but instead, it just made me laugh bitterly. “It’s too late anyway. I disappeared for ten days without a word to anyone. I probably don’t even have a place on the team anymore.”
“If you’re any good, they’ll fight to have you back,” my father assured me.
That’s when the tears started, silent and unstoppable. Because what was hockey compared to everything I’d already lost? What was any achievement, any goal, any dream when measured against the shape of Rhett’s mouth when he smiled?
“What is it?” my mother asked, her voice softer now, worried. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
I shrugged helplessly, not trusting my voice to remain steady. “What I want is…gone.”
In the silence that followed, I let myself think his name. Rhett. The syllable felt like a prayer and a curse all wrapped together.
“It’s Rhett Morrison,” I said finally, the words feeling strange and vulnerable in my mouth. “He’s who I want. And I…I lost him.”
The admission hung in the air like a confession, and I braced myself for their reaction. Disappointment, anger, lectures about family loyalty and corporate responsibility and the impossibility of mixing business with personal feelings.
Instead, my mother reached across the table and took my hand.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said gently.
“Have I disappointed you again?” I asked, suddenly feeling twelve years old. “Getting involved with the enemy?”
“The rivalry between our companies should have nothing to do with you boys. If you hold no grudges for the lowly behaviors of their editors, Aiden, why should I?” my father said firmly. “If it’s what you really want.”
“It’s what I want,” I said without hesitation. I didn’t care about the shots that had been fired in the past. “He’s what I want. But I gambled it all away.”
“What happened?”
So I told them. About the morning ten days ago when the news broke, about my panic and defensiveness, about the terrible things I’d said when all he’d wanted was to help me through the crisis.
About watching him walk away and knowing I’d destroyed something precious because I’d been too afraid to trust it.
“I accused him of fishing for corporate intelligence,” I said, the shame of it still burning in my chest. “Like he was some kind of spy instead of someone who cared about me.”
“That must have hurt him terribly,” my mother observed.
“It did. And I knew it would, but I said it anyway because I was scared and angry, and I didn’t know how to handle having something that important.”
“Fear makes us do terrible things sometimes,” my father said quietly. “I should know.”
We sat in silence for a while, the three of us processing everything that had been said. Finally, my mother squeezed my hand.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’d be willing to listen to an apology. I hurt him pretty badly.”
“But you won’t know unless you try,” she pointed out.
“What if he says no? What if I’ve destroyed it completely?”
“Then at least you’ll know you tried,” my father said. “At least you’ll know you were brave enough to fight for something that mattered to you.”
Brave. When was the last time anyone had accused me of being brave? I’d spent my entire life taking the safe path, the expected path, the one that kept everyone happy and maintained the status quo. But being brave meant risking rejection, facing the possibility that some mistakes couldn’t be fixed.
“I don’t know how to be brave,” I admitted.
“You were brave enough to walk away from everything we offered you tonight,” my mother pointed out. “You were brave enough to choose your own path instead of the one we’d laid out for you.”
“That felt more like desperation than bravery.”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” my father said with a wan smile. “The best decisions I ever made were the ones that scared me the most.”
As I sat there in my childhood dining room, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and privilege I’d never asked for, I realized that for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I wanted. Not the company, not the legacy, not the empire my father had built.
I wanted Rhett. I wanted Sunday mornings and terrible coffee and conversations that lasted for hours. I wanted someone who challenged me to be better and held me when the world felt like too much to handle. I wanted to build something real with someone who saw me as more than just a Whitmore heir.
The question was whether I was brave enough to try to get it back.
And whether he’d give me the chance to prove that I could be the person he’d deserved all along.