Tristan
The potatoes are diced, the tofu is sizzling in the pan, and I’ve got tortillas laid out on the counter ready to fill.
Two weeks into working on this breakfast burrito recipe, and I’ve almost got it.
The seasoning on the potatoes before they hit the pan was the thing I kept getting wrong, and now that I’ve figured that out, the whole thing comes together the way I wanted it to.
Life is really fucking good right now.
The studio project is moving, Thorne Enterprises is in better shape than it was six months ago, and at home, something has settled between me and Chloe that I’m trying not to overthink, in case examining it too closely breaks it.
What I know is that I come home every night and she’s there, and we end up in bed together—if we even make it to the bed.
I’ve spent enough time learning her by now that I know every sound she makes and what it means, every place on her body that makes her breath catch, and the way her back arches when she’s about to come all over my cock.
I know all of it, and I want to keep learning.
I toss the diced potatoes into the pan, stirring them with a wooden spoon, the aroma filling the kitchen. I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me and turn to see Chloe standing in the doorway, her hair tousled from sleep.
She’s wearing nothing but my shirt from yesterday, and holy fuck, I never want that shirt back. It looks so damn good on her. The way the fabric clings to her curves, swallowing her petite frame, makes my heart race.
“Good morning,” I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “You should wear that and only that, all the time.”
She smirks, a mischievous glint in her eye as she starts to unbutton the shirt, one button at a time. The anticipation builds with each undone button, revealing more of her smooth, tantalizing skin.
When the last button is undone, she lets the shirt fall to the floor in a casual shrug. “Does that mean you don’t like me like this?”
A growl works its way out of me at the sight of her standing there, my shirt pooled around her feet. The spoon clatters to the counter, and my hands are on her before I’ve made any conscious decision about it, lifting her up onto the counter and stepping between her legs.
I kiss her hard, my hands moving over her skin, and then reach down to free myself and pull her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around me and I press into her slowly, watching her face as I do, and she tips her head back against the cabinet and exhales.
We don’t stay slow for long. I fuck her hard and fast, both of us already wound up, her hands gripping my shoulders, soft little sounds escaping her every time I drive into her.
She comes apart around me less than a minute in, her head falling back against the cabinet, and I keep going, determined to get another one out of her before I let myself finish.
I can smell something burning on the stove, but I don’t care. She comes again just like I wanted, her pussy clenching around me, and I grunt as I empty myself inside her.
As we breathe hard in the aftermath, I reach over and turn off the burner.
The potatoes are done for.
After pulling out and helping her clean up a bit, I toss them in the trash. Then I wash my hands and start over with something simpler, cracking eggs into the pan while Chloe disappears upstairs to get dressed.
By the time she comes back down, I’ve got scrambled eggs and toast on two plates, which is about as much as either of us has time for at this point.
We eat quickly, both of us already checking the time, and then we finish getting ready and head for the door at the same time. She’s already got her hand on the handle when I catch her by the wrist and turn her around, pulling her in for a final kiss as I bury my free hand in her soft hair.
I just need one more. One more fix of my addiction before I let her go for the day.
Later that afternoon, I’m at the office, immersed in the whirlwind of activity that comes with running Thorne Enterprises.
Alongside the new studio project with Chloe, I’m focused on expanding and strengthening the empire my father built.
There are plans to review, potential deals to evaluate, and countless decisions to make.
My desk is a sea of documents and files, each one representing a different opportunity or challenge.
I’m still getting caught up on all the plans and potential deals my father was exploring before he passed.
It’s a daunting task, trying to decide which ventures to pursue and which to let go.
As I sift through the stacks of paper, a sense of responsibility weighs heavily on me.
This is my legacy now, and I need to make the right choices for the future of the company.
As I reach for another file, something catches my eye. It’s a small envelope, tucked away among the business documents. I pull it out and scan the front.
The sender’s name in the corner is Doctor Samuel Fisher. My heart skips a beat. I recognize the name. He was our family doctor when I was a kid. Why would there be a letter from him mixed in with all these business documents?
I open the envelope carefully, the paper feeling old and fragile between my fingers. Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper. As I unfold it, my eyes are immediately drawn to the header.
Diagnostic Imaging Report.
The report is dated from when I was around eight years old. My eyes scan the document quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. The words “clear of cancer” jump out at me, sending a chill down my spine.
Cancer?
My father had cancer?
I lean back in my chair, staring at the report.
I close my eyes, trying to recall memories from that time, searching for any clues that might explain my father’s secrecy.
He was absent a lot that year. He said it was because of work, that he had to travel for business meetings and conferences.
But what if there was more to it than that?
What if my father’s frequent trips were actually for medical treatment? What if he was battling cancer during those absences, and I never knew?
Now that I have a name to go by, the search is simple. I uncover medical records, appointment logs, and correspondence with the doctor. Piece by piece, I start to put together the truth of what happened all those years ago.
There it is, in black and white. Records of his diagnosis with prostate cancer, his treatment, and ultimately, his recovery from the disease.
But then I come across a more recent record, and my stomach clenches with dread. It’s dated not long ago at all, and the words on the page send a chill down my spine.
Aggressive recurrence of prostate cancer.
The text blurs a little in my vision, and I can feel panic and anger rising in my chest. What the fuck?
I need to know more, to understand what happened. To understand why I was never told.
I shut down the computer and stand up from my desk, my movements automatic as I stride for the door of my office. My secretary calls out, telling me I have a meeting soon, but I barely register her words.
“Push it back,” I mutter over my shoulder. “This won’t take long.”
As I step out into the hallway, I feel as if the ground beneath me is shifting. Everything I thought I knew about my father, about our family—which, admittedly, was already not enough—is called into question by this information.
The drive to my mother’s house seems to take forever. I sit in the back of the car, my mind racing with questions, practicing for what I’ll say when I see her. As the driver pulls up to the familiar address, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what’s ahead.
I step up to the front door and knock. Within a few seconds, the door opens, and she stands there, staring at me.
“Tristan? It’s the middle of the day! Aren’t you—”
“Dad had cancer.”
Her expression drops. Pain settles over her face.
I push past her and into the house, my heart pounding in my chest. Anger, agitation, and shock churn inside me, threatening to overwhelm me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, the words coming out as an accusation.
She hesitates, her gaze falling to the floor, unable to meet mine. “Your father… he didn’t want to worry his family. He thought it would be best to keep it between us.”
“But you knew. You knew, and you kept it from us.”
She swallows, nodding. “I did.”
“And did you know—” I break off for a moment, my throat tight. “Did you know that his cancer had come back?”
Tears well in her eyes as she meets my gaze, her admission hanging in the air. “Yes,” she whispers. “I did.”
My jaw clenches as I stand before my mother. The truth, ugly and painful, hangs between us.
“Was Dad’s death an accident?” My words cut through the silence.
Her tears flow freely now, running down her cheeks. She shakes her head, her voice choked. “I don’t know,” she admits.
I reel back a bit, even though part of me was expecting that.
Gritting my teeth, I run a hand through my hair as agitation churns inside me.
How could I not have known about any of this?
My father, the man I idolized, had been hiding a painful truth from us all along, sacrificing his own well-being to protect those he loved.
“He changed after his first bout with cancer,” my mother explains, brushing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He became so determined to protect us, to make sure we were taken care of. That’s… that’s why he was so focused on the company. It was all about providing for the family.”
That truth sinks in hard. Parts of my father’s behavior that I could never wrap my head around—that I always chafed against—begin to make terrible sense.
“He never told you about the cancer because he didn’t want any of you to worry,” my mother continues, her words punctuated by sobs. “He thought he could handle it on his own, that he could shield you from it—”
As everything starts to fit together, the realization hits me. My father’s battle with cancer lines up with so much of what I’ve always struggled to understand. His relentless focus on work, his absence from our lives, his failure to take care of his relationships with my mother and all of us.
He was so consumed by the need to provide for us, to secure our future, that he sacrificed what we needed most: his presence.
I can’t unwind the deep hurt and anger twisting inside me. Money and security were never what I wanted from him. I wanted a father who was actually fucking present, who took the time to see us, to know us, to be there for us when we needed him the most.
I never had that, the most basic thing a kid needs from his parents.
Leaving my mother’s house feels like tearing myself away from the eye of a storm.
She stands in the doorway, tears on her cheeks, her gaze following me as I retreat back outside.
I can’t bear to look back, to see the pain and guilt on her face, knowing that I’m leaving her behind to deal with all of this alone.
The car is still idling in my mother’s driveway, waiting for me. As I climb into the back seat, the driver glances back at me. I’m sure my fury and grief are written all over my face, but he doesn’t comment, professional as ever.
“Where to, sir?”
I swallow. I’m in no shape to attend a meeting right now. If push comes to shove, I know my secretary can call up one of my brothers to attend in my place. Reid wouldn’t mind doing it.
“Downtown,” I mutter. “I need to clear my head.”
Around twenty minutes later, I find myself in a bar. It’s quiet in the middle of the afternoon, dim and cool, the kind of place where a man can sit alone with a drink and nobody is going to give a fuck about it.
I take a stool, order a whiskey without looking at what they have, and down it as soon as the bartender sets it in front of me.
My chest warms immediately, and I let myself focus on that instead of anything else. I tilt the empty glass between my fingers, dragging in a breath and letting it out slowly as everything I learned today sits in my chest like a lump of cement.
My father, who I thought I at least partly understood, was in fact practically a stranger to me.
He fought cancer alone when I was eight years old and missing him and being told he was traveling for work.
He watched it come back and kept that to himself too, right up until the end.
Then he got in his car and headed up the PCH before driving off the road, leaving my mother never knowing if it was an accident or not.
Clenching my jaw, I tap the bar and lift my chin at the bartender.
He refills my glass, and I toss it back in one swallow, feeling the whiskey burn all the way down.