Tristan
Two weeks after my father’s award presentation, I sit in my corner office at Thorne Enterprises, scowling at the spreadsheet on the screen in front of me.
Our numbers have been slipping. There’s no way around it. We aren’t meeting the same profits we have in the past.
It’s undeniable. Just like Chloe Dawson hinted, we’re on the verge of stagnation.
I tap the side of my laptop, agitated, and turn my gaze to the skyline outside of my floor-to-ceiling windows.
I have a spectacular view of Los Angeles, straight past the skyscrapers and to Mount San Antonio—or Mount Baldy, as the locals prefer to call it. The peak towers above the city, snow-capped despite the warming spring weather.
For the past year or so, my father has seemed less than interested in growing the business. I don’t know why, but it’s concerning.
It almost feels like he doesn’t think he should have to keep pushing. Like he thinks he’s made it to the top, and he deserves to rest there, unchallenged.
Unfortunately, that’s not the way business works. He doesn’t get to stop striving if he wants to stay on top.
I stand up from my desk, stretching, and turn away from the skyline and the mountain. I tuck my laptop under my arm and head out into the hallway.
Maybe if I shove the numbers in front of his face, my father will finally be willing to hear me out.
After all, I’m the head of strategic development. It’s an unspoken understanding among my brothers that once my father retires, he’ll tap me to take over as CEO. I don’t want to inherit a train wreck.
My father’s office is on the building’s top floor, a corner office like my own, but much, much larger. The gleaming oak doors open, granting me entry into his domain, a room where every detail speaks to triumph.
In the corner nearest the door is a private enclave—a round coffee table, two leather chairs, and shelves lining the walls. The shelves are stacked with books on leadership and business that haven’t been cracked open in years, although they’re still dusted daily.
Typically, I’d find my father sitting behind his polished desk, flanked by the city. Today though, he’s in one of the armchairs off to one side, his feet up on an ottoman.
He’s looking out the window, his face turned away from me. The gray at his temples is visible. Despite his age, my father has a full head of once-dark hair. I’m told that we look alike, although the constant comparison frustrates me.
I clear my throat. “Do you have a minute?”
He glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed. “Tristan. What can I do for you?”
“We need to talk about revenue. Are you busy?”
He twists in his chair, shaking his head as he turns to me. “No. Not at the moment, although I have a meeting with shareholders in Malibu at one. Come in. Sit down.”
He gestures to the armchair beside his. I sit down, the plush leather creaking.
“What is it?” he asks. “You look stressed.”
He doesn’t look stressed, which frustrates me. I take a deep breath, then launch into my explanation of our slipping profits. He listens, stone-faced, as I open my laptop and show him the spreadsheet I’ve spent the morning analyzing.
When I’m done, he sits in silence for a long moment. Then he says, “The market is a fluid thing, son. It won’t take long for this to turn around.”
“Turn around?” I stare at him. “We’re looking at a true slump. This isn’t the normal give and take, Dad. This is…” I trail off, unsure how he doesn’t see it.
“What’s your point?” He leans back in his chair. “Why did you come to me about it?”
“Because you’re the CEO.” I frown at him. “If we’re going to do something about this, it’ll be your call.”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
“We can make some adjustments. We can push harder in our entertainment sector, and—”
Before I can finish my thought, he’s already waving a dismissive hand. I grit my teeth, biting back my annoyance.
“I have plans, Tristan,” he tells me, as if I’m an agitated child. “You don’t need to worry about this. A long-term vision takes patience, not sudden movements.”
“This wouldn’t be sudden. It would be proactive.”
“You need to be smart. Strategic.” It’s as if he didn’t hear me speak at all. He gives me an arch look. “This company will need you to be strategic in the future.”
My jaw tightens involuntarily. His constant references to that nebulous future—to my impending role as CEO, to the path he has laid out for me—never fail to frustrate me, and yet, it carries all of its desired implications.
He knows this company, this world, better than I do. If I want to follow in his footsteps, I need to learn how he walks.
As if he can sense the turmoil in my head, he softens a bit, reaching out a hand to grab my forearm.
“Trust me, son. Trust my vision for this company.”
And just like that, we’re not changing anything, I think to myself. But rather than argue, I nod.
There’s no coming back from being brushed off so quickly. I would know. We go through this dance every other week.
If he’s just going to disregard all of my suggestions, I’m not sure why he’s even keeping me around.
I direct my gaze down at the intricately embroidered rug on the floor so that my father won’t see the disappointment in my eyes.
Just keeping me shut away until the day he steps down? God knows when that’ll be.
“Okay.” My father rises to his feet, effectively ending our conversation. “I should probably get going if I want to be in Malibu on time.”
“Shall I call a driver?”
“No, no. It’s a nice day. I’ll take the McLaren.” My father is a collector of sports cars. At every opportunity, he can be found behind the wheel of one of his imports.
“Can we discuss these numbers again later? I might have a few other ideas about how to address this,” I say. He gives me a weary look, and I amend, “More patient ideas. Less drastic.”
“Sure, Tristan. I’ll talk to you later.”
With that, he leaves, and I’m alone in his spacious office. Sunlight from the expansive windows falls across his desk, drawing my eye.
My father, when he sits behind that desk, is every bit as imposing as the company he runs.
I take an involuntary step toward it and let myself imagine sitting there, finally in a position to make the changes I’ve been pushing for instead of running every one of them past a man who’s spent forty years convinced he’s the only one who’s right.
The tactics he used to get the company here aren’t the same ones that will keep it here. I don’t know how to make him see that. And I don’t know how much longer Thorne Enterprises can hold up under his old playbook.
I head back to my office and spend the rest of the day there, poring over the data. Hoping against hope that somehow, in my capacity as the head of strategic development, I can find a solution to this problem before it grows beyond my control.
I lose myself in the work, searching for an answer that my father will accept. By five o’clock, I’ve jotted down a list of no fewer than eight potential plans—though I’m certain he’ll find something wrong with each of them.
The shadows are growing long in my office by the time I close my laptop. I glance at my phone, then blink at the screen.
I have over fifteen missed calls.
None of them are from clients or colleagues. They’re all from my family. From my mother. From each of my brothers. Reid called me three times.
Something is wrong.
My chest tightens as I call my mother back. The call connects, and I hear her voice on the other end.
“Tristan,” she whispers. I’ve never heard her sound like this before. Weary. Shaky. Unnerved.
“Mom. Is everything okay?”
There’s a pause, then she makes a sound like a gasping sob. “No. No, Tristan. Your father… there’s been an accident.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What?”
“The… the car… he…”
“Mom. What’s going on?”
“He’s dead, Tristan,” my mother chokes out. “Your father is dead.”
I stare into the reflection in my bathroom mirror, my razor in my hand.
I’m too numb to begin shaving off the stubble that has shadowed my jaw for days now. Over the past week, between the chaos of planning the funeral and my own grief, I haven’t been paying enough attention to my personal routine.
That means that things like shaving have gone by the wayside. It also means that my work has taken a hit, and that there’s a mountain of unread emails sitting in my inbox.
My father lost control of his prized McLaren F1 on the Pacific Coast Highway. The car veered off the edge and hit the shallow surf below. He was killed on impact, and no one else was injured.
That’s what the police statement—the one that was passed around to all of the major newspapers—had to say about the accident.
The papers carried obituaries lauding my father’s successes in his industry, listing his accomplishments, and speculating about the future of Thorne Enterprises.
Most of the articles contained glowing praise, but that was a cold comfort to me. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, my father was gone. I was talking to him earlier that day. How could he just be gone?
The funeral was yesterday. It was well attended by mourners in black, and it took all of my energy to remain stoic throughout the proceedings.
The will reading is scheduled for today. As I watched my father’s casket be lowered into the ground, I quietly promised myself that I would get it together before I heard his will read aloud.
I would go home. I would rest. I would clean myself up. And I would face reality.
Easier said than done.
I force myself to run my razor through the shaving cream in slow, deliberate strokes. It feels like it takes forever to finish shaving, but once I’m done and I’ve rinsed my face, I already feel slightly better about facing today. A little momentum goes a long way.
I head back into my walk-in closet to select a suit for the reading, dress myself, then step out onto the balcony of my oceanside home for a cup of morning coffee. Breathing deeply, I inhale the scent of the coffee and the briny smell of the ocean, trying to settle my mind.