LLEN
The champagne flute felt cold and ridiculously delicate in my hand. Across from me, my father swirled his own glass, the ice in his scotch clinking like a warning bell.
"A toast," Doncan Cross announced, his voice filling the opulent study of our Hampton estate. "To my son. Graduate of Stanford. Master of his own destiny."
My mother, Miranda, offered a tight, perfect smile. "We're so proud, darling."
I forced a nod, taking a sip. The bubbles were too sharp. This whole scene was too polished, too scripted. I'd just spent four years in California building something that was mine—a fintech startup that investors were already circling. The last thing I wanted was to be shoved into a pre-ordained role.
The pleasantries lasted exactly three more minutes. Then my father set his glass down with a definitive click.
"The vacation's over, Allen. It's time."
I leaned back in the leather armchair, feigning a relaxation I didn't feel. "Time for what? My company has a meeting with—"
"Your hobby," he interrupted, his voice losing its congratulatory tone. "It's a cute diversion. Apex Innovations is your legacy. It's time you assumed your responsibilities. Starting Monday."
Monday. The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. I could see it all laid out like a prison sentence: the corner office, the board meetings, the endless parade of sycophants and social climbers. The same predictable life he'd built.
"I have responsibilities," I said, my voice cooler than I intended. "To the company I built from my dorm room."
My mother sighed, a soft, disappointed sound. "Don't be difficult, Allen. This is your birthright. We're not asking. We're telling you. It's for your own good."
For my own good. The most controlling phrase ever invented.
A familiar, restless energy burned in my veins. I wanted to build empires, not just inherit them. I wanted to make my own mistakes, not dutifully repeat my father's successes.
I stood up, placing the half-finished champagne on his mahogany desk. "I appreciate the… guidance. But my plans are my own."
My father's eyes narrowed. The air in the room went from warm to icy in a second. "Your plans are childish. This isn't a negotiation. You will be at Apex on Monday. Or the funding for your little 'project' dries up. Every last cent."
There it was. The threat. Not a request. An ultimatum. He held all the cards, and he knew it.
I looked from his stern face to my mother's pleading one. They saw a heir. A piece on their chessboard. I saw a cage, gilded and waiting.
A slow, defiant smile touched my lips. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a challenge.
"Fine," I said, my voice quiet but clear. "I'll be there Monday."
The relief on their faces was instant, and it made me sick. They thought they'd won.
They had no idea what they'd just unleashed. If they wanted me to play the dutiful son and assume my responsibilities, fine. But I'd do it on my own terms. I'd turn their precious company inside out. I'd make it mine in a way they could never comprehend.
I turned and walked out of the study without another word, the taste of victory and rebellion bitter on my tongue.
Monday was coming. And so was a storm they never saw coming.
The heavy front door of the estate clicked shut behind me, cutting off the oppressive silence inside. The cool night air hit my face, and I finally felt like I could breathe again. I could still feel the weight of my father's ultimatum pressing down on my shoulders.
Monday. Apex. Or else.
A cold, restless anger buzzed beneath my skin. They thought they could box me in. They thought I'd just fall in line.
I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jacket, my thumb scrolling through contacts until I found him. Leo. My roommate from Stanford. The one person who wouldn't lecture me about legacy or responsibility.
He answered on the second ring, the sound of city traffic already loud in the background. "Cross. Congrats, grad. What's up? You sound pissed."
"I am pissed," I said, my voice tight. I started walking toward my car, the gravel crunching under my shoes. "My parents just handed me my future wrapped in a bow and told me to smile."
Leo let out a low whistle. "Apex, huh? The big time. So, what's the problem? Most people would kill for that."
"I'm not most people," I snapped, then sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I need to blow off some steam. Serious steam."
I could almost hear his grin through the phone. "Say no more. Meet me at Lavo in an hour. I'll get us on the list."
Lavo. The name brought a flicker of the old feeling back. The bass, the crowd, the anonymity. The perfect place to forget your name, your future, and everything expected of you.
"Make it forty-five minutes," I said, my grip tightening on the phone. "And tell them to have a bottle of Macallan 18 waiting at the table. The good stuff."
"Done," Leo said, his voice full of gleeful understanding. "Anything else, your highness?"
"Yeah," I said, a grim smile finally touching my lips as I reached my car. "Tell them it's going to be a long night."
I ended the call and slid into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, a powerful, obedient sound my father would approve of. I glanced back at the lit-up mansion, a fortress of expectations.
Then I pulled out of the driveway and pointed the car toward the city, toward the noise, and toward the one thing I could still control: forgetting it all.