The office smelled of old money and vetiver. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that were more for show than for reading. A massive mahogany desk, polished to a deep gleam, served as the room's centerpiece. Behind it, in a high-backed leather chair that seemed to swallow him whole, sat Graham D. Smythe Jr.
Mr. Smythe was a man carved from granite and expectation. Though only in his early fifties, he carried the weight of generations on his shoulders. His posture was ramrod straight, his hair impeccably styled, and his eyes, the same piercing blue as Duncan's, held none of his son's fire. They held only a cool, analytical assessment.
G. Duncan Smythe III sat opposite him in a comparatively small, uncomfortable chair. He had been here for ten minutes, enduring a silent lecture that had yet to begin. The air was thick with unspoken disapproval.
"Duncan," his father finally said, his voice as smooth and cold as the marble floor. "Your mother tells me you've moved a boyfriend into the guest house."
He steepled his fingers, his gaze sharpening. "Did you not think you might want to check with the homeowner first?”
Duncan leaned forward, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. The air in the room crackled, shifting from paternal disapproval to something far more volatile.
"You're a powerless, judgmental prick," he said, his voice low and sharp as shattered glass. "And in 49 days, I turn 21. When I do, I'll have access to the trusts left to me by my mother's side of the family."
He paused, letting the words land. He held his father's gaze, seeing the first flicker of uncertainty in the older man's eyes.
"It's enough money that if I were to short your meager empire's stock," Duncan continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "and then leak your true financials, it would make me richer than you can imagine."
He leaned back in his chair, the smile returning, wider and more mocking this time.
"Of course," he added with a dismissive wave of his hand, "a profitable lemonade stand would yield a fortune bigger than you can imagine.”
Graham Smythe’s face hardened, the mask of composure cracking to reveal the cold fury beneath. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
"Duncan, one day you will go too far," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You will say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and well, god help you when that happens, because it certainly will not be me."
Duncan didn't flinch. The threat was just another piece on the board, one he had already anticipated. He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor.
"Then we're done?" he asked, already standing. He smoothed the front of his shirt, a final, dismissive gesture. "Always a pleasure, Father.”
The revolving door of the skyscraper hissed open, spilling Duncan out onto the bustling city sidewalk. He didn't hesitate, striding to the curb where the valet stood at attention.
“Smythe, the blue Ineos Grenadier," Duncan said, his voice clipped.
The valet scurried off, returning a moment later with the sleek, blue SUV. The engine was a low, contented purr. Duncan slid into the driver's seat, the cool leather a welcome contrast to the suffocating heat of his father's office. He pulled out into the traffic, the city a blur of noise and light.
He tapped the steering wheel, the confrontation with his father already fading, replaced by a familiar, restless energy. He needed to see Jake. He needed to feel the solid, grounding presence of his boy. He needed to remind himself of the world he was building, a world that had nothing to do with trusts or stock prices.
He tapped his phone's screen. "Dictate text," he commanded, his voice clear and sharp.
"To Jake," he said, his eyes on the road. The car's system beeped, ready for his message.
"We are going dancing tonight! Be ready at 9:39 p.m.!”
Then Duncan tapped a button on the steering wheel. "Play Florence and the Machine!" he commanded, his voice sharp in the quiet cabin of the SUV.
The opening synth notes of *Dog Days Are Over* blasted through the speakers, a defiant, joyous anthem that was all his own.
***
Miles away, on a dirt path deep within the estate, Jake's silent earbuds suddenly came to life, the same soaring melody interrupting his rhythm. He stopped dead, his body confused by the sudden, unscheduled intrusion. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping to catch his breath as the music swelled.
He reached for the armband where his phone resided, his fingers fumbling with the sweat-slick plastic. He pulled the phone free, the screen lighting up with the notification.
He read the text from Duncan, the words stark and clear against the bright background.
*We are going dancing tonight! Be ready at 9:39 p.m.!*
Jake stared at the message, his exhaustion forgotten. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face as the music continued to play, a soundtrack to the chaos of his life.
The final stretch of the run was a blur of muscle memory and burning lungs. Jake slowed to a walk as he reached the manicured lawn of the main estate, his jog finally ending at the steps of the caretaker's cottage. He stopped, bending over to brace his hands on his knees, his chest heaving.
He glanced at his watch. Five miles. A good run. A cleansing run.
He pulled the phone from its armband, the plastic band now damp with sweat. He flicked the screen, his thumb hovering over Duncan's text. He tapped the little heart icon, giving it a heads-up. A small, silent acknowledgment of the command.
Time for a long shower, a shave, and a protein shake. He had a date to get ready for.
