4. Chris #2
“I worked on an injustice,” Carl said mildly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Chris let out a short, humourless laugh. “You had no consent. You dug through my life, my training logs, my movements, my medical records.”
“All legally obtained.”
Chris ignored him, barrelling on. “You decided what you thought was best for me.”
Carl’s mouth thinned. “What was best for you was not having your career end in disgrace because you were too stubborn to accept help.”
Chris felt something hot flare behind his ribs. “You don’t get to make that choice.”
“Someone had to,” Carl shot back, the pleasant tone finally cracking. “You were spiralling. Shutting yourself off from everyone. You still are. I know what that looks like, Chris, I bloody well lived it.”
Chris opened his mouth to respond, and that was when he noticed he wasn’t alone.
The man leaning against the filing cabinet to Carl’s left straightened slightly, as if he’d been waiting to be acknowledged. Chris hadn’t clocked him before, too busy being incandescent with rage, but now his presence snapped into focus with an almost irritating clarity.
Tall and lean, with a high cheekbones and platinum blond hair that was longer than Carl’s or Elliot’s, like the same gene expressed with a bit more rebellion.
Striking pale blue eyes stared him down.
He was attractive in a way that Chris absolutely did not have the mental bandwidth to deal with right now.
Great. Of course.
“And you are?” Chris asked, already bristling.
“Isaiah,” the man said coolly. “Carl’s nephew.”
Ah. That explained the emails. And the attitude.
“He’s also part of the team,” Carl added. “He’s been helping with the research. Took the lead on it, actually.”
Chris scoffed. “Fantastic. So now I’m a family hobby project?”
Isaiah’s jaw tightened. “Watch it.”
Chris turned fully towards him now, anger flaring fresh. “No, actually, you watch it. I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t want this, and I certainly didn’t consent to being dissected by some nepo baby detective wannabe like a fucking case study.”
Isaiah pushed off the cabinet, folding his arms. “You don’t get to act like this is some kind of personal violation. I kept you informed all the way through. You’re the one who couldn’t so much as deign to respond to an email, and you’re the one who fucked up in the first place.”
The words landed hard.
Chris stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Isaiah said, voice lowering as he got up in Chris’s face.
As he came closer, Chris was struck by his scent, spicy, warm, and citrusy.
“Everyone knows you did it. Maybe not with a syringe in your hand, but you crossed a line. And now you’re sulking because someone bothered to stop your career going up in flames. ”
“That is not what happened,” Chris snapped.
“Isn’t it?” Isaiah shot back. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like classic entitlement. Golden boy athlete makes a bad call, gets caught, and then throws a tantrum when the consequences feel too real.”
Chris felt the sting of it deep in his chest, sharp and humiliating. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re lucky my uncle’s as stubborn as he is,” Isaiah said. “You’re lucky he took a personal interest despite your little temper tantrum after the Games. Most people would’ve let you rot.”
Carl cleared his throat sharply. “Isaiah.”
“No,” Isaiah continued, eyes locked on Chris now, unyielding. “He comes in here acting like he’s been wronged when all we did was give him help. Help he needed, whether he likes it or not.”
Chris’s hands curled at his sides. He was breathing too fast. He hated that this stranger, this irritatingly handsome, self-righteous stranger, had managed to hit something tender.
“You think I don’t know I fucked up?” Chris said quietly. “You think I don’t live with that every day? You think I don’t have to look my parents in the eye every morning and know that I’m the reason they don’t smile as bright anymore?”
Isaiah hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. It was brief, but Chris saw it.
Then he shook his head. “If you did, you wouldn’t be standing here acting like this is some moral crusade.”
Carl stood abruptly. “Enough, both of you.”
Chris let out a breath, suddenly exhausted.
The anger was still there, but now it was tangled with something messier.
All mixed up inside him with the shame, resentment, and deeply inconvenient awareness that Isaiah’s eyes were a startling shade of blue that deepened to navy when he was angry, and that he looked just as furious as Chris felt.
“I didn’t ask to be saved,” Chris said, turning back to Carl. “You took my choice away.”
Carl softened, just a little. “I gave you time.”
“You gave me an ultimatum.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
Chris straightened, smoothing a hand over his jacket like he could iron himself back into composure. “I’ll sign the papers. Because I don’t actually want to burn my own life down out of spite.”
Isaiah scoffed quietly.
“But don’t pretend this was some noble act,” Chris added. “You didn’t do this for me, you did it for yourself.”
He turned towards the door, then paused, glancing back at Isaiah. “I am sorry about the emails. I’ll do better,” he said, voice steady now. “But for the record, you don’t get to decide who I am based on a headline.”
Isaiah’s expression flickered again. Chris could see the annoyance, but there was something else there, something unreadable beneath it.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But you don’t get to decide who I am based on a surname. Or pretend you’re the victim here.”
Chris nodded once.
He left before either of them could say anything else, the door clicking shut behind him. Outside, the city rushed on, indifferent. Chris exhaled hard, heart still pounding.