Chapter 23
Max sits quietly beside his father’s hospital bed, the steady beep of the monitors filling the sterile air. The sharp smell of disinfectant turns his stomach. He hates hospitals.
His father looks as frail and irritable as ever, diminished beneath a tangle of tubes and wires. A young nurse hovers at his side, fussing with the machines and smoothing the sheets with unnecessary care. She was already there when Max arrived, and it’s obvious to both men that she’s stalling.
Max rolls a sleek black pen between his fingers, the lacquered barrel catching the light as it slides against his skin, back and forth.
His narrowed gaze tracks the nurse as she rechecks the vitals, stretching out each task and testing his patience.
The longer she stalls, the faster the pen moves—spinning, tapping, clicking.
She keeps trying to draw Max into small talk, giggling and blushing at his clipped replies.
He’s seen this many times before. After all, his good looks aren’t merely the result of genetics, but also of his own careful design. His mother, a vapid heiress from noble, old-money stock, drilled into him from childhood the importance of maintaining one’s appearance.
To this day, she continues to preach that outer beauty reflects inner worth, equating unattractiveness with laziness or moral decay.
“Look at Matthew’s wife,” she’d commented one recent afternoon. “All that charity work she does really shines through even before her new teeth. Now, she’s pretty enough to play a supporting character on a show. Anyone can be beautiful if they just try.”
Though his mother’s approval has long meant nothing to him, he still adheres to a strict routine: regular workouts, a clean diet, careful sleep hygiene, beauty treatments, and stylists who curate his wardrobe.
Even at his lowest, drugged out of his mind, he never skipped his skincare routine.
Shallow as she is, she isn’t wrong; in elite circles, good looks, money, and intelligence mean everything.
It’s a truth that has shaped him more than he’d like to admit.
Appearances open doors, silence questions, and grant power before a single word is spoken.
So despite the nurse’s obvious interest, he feels no impulse to reward her with even the smallest smile.
There’s no advantage in returning her attention when there are countless like her.
His thoughts drift instead to the one woman who has never hidden her disdain for him.
Lila.
From the very beginning, she seemed to despise him, yet he’s been slowly winning her over. His last gift, however, had set him back. What should have swept her off her feet only pushed her further from his grasp. He understands, at least in part, why she hadn’t been thrilled by it.
Still, he wishes she’d shown a little more gratitude for the video he poured so much time, effort, and manpower into obtaining. Time isn’t on his side. He’d chosen an end date close to Thanksgiving on purpose, hoping she’d be attached enough by then to ask to spend the holiday with him.
Sometimes, he even allows himself to imagine introducing her to his family, watching their reactions as she takes her place beside him.
Would they be as captivated by her as he is?
He already knows the answer. No matter how amazing, beautiful, or talented she may be, they will never accept her.
Experience has taught him that his family is narrow-minded like that.
No. It would be better to whisk her away somewhere warm and private for the holidays—just the two of them.
All she has to do is ask.
Damn, I fucked up, he curses inwardly. That video should have been shown to her much later.
In his effort to make her open up again, he’s been forcing himself into a new level of gentleness that feels entirely unnatural.
“Get the hell on with it! What is wrong with you?” his father suddenly barks, jolting Max from his thoughts.
“Oh—sorry!” the nurse squeaks, hurrying away, though not before casting Max a forlorn goodbye look.
“So,” his father says, “how was your birthday?”
“Splendid,” Max replies with a sigh. “I’m surprised you remember.”
Despite Lila’s hot-and-cold treatment, it’s the truth. Without her, he wouldn’t have taken time off to celebrate something he never cared about anyway. Still, he’d enjoyed taking a Monday off for once.
“Well, of course. You’re my son,” Michael says, arching a brow.
“The hospital finally gave me the green light to leave. Hospice care. Can you believe it? After all the damn poison they’ve been pumping into me, this is how it ends.
” He pauses, then fixes Max with a sharp look.
“So tell me, my dear boy—what brings you here?”
“I wanted to tell you I got the deal in London.”
“Well… congratulations. You’re doing good work out there, son,” Michael says in a dry, flat tone. Despite the words, his lack of enthusiasm is clear in the way he lifts his eyebrows and presses his pale lips into a thin, disapproving line.
Michael has always held high expectations for his sons. Success is assumed, not celebrated.
Max scoffs softly, recalling his father’s words from the day he returned from rehab as vividly as if they’d been spoken yesterday.
“For fuck’s sake, Max. Do you want a damn cookie and a fucking pat on the back for finally getting clean?” his father had shouted.
“I’m fucking dying, Max,” he says now, every word dripping with venom.
His tone is impatient, almost mocking, as if the very idea of affection disgusts him.
“So if you can stop wasting both of our time and just tell me the real reason you’re here, we can get on with it.
” He leans back in his bed, his gaze sharp and unforgiving, daring his son to stall any longer.
Max wants to ask his father if it would kill him to be a decent parent for once, but instead he only tuts softly, his long fingers rubbing his chin as if carefully weighing his words.
“Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but our CEO hasn’t been doing too hot.
He’s been cutting too many projects, scrounging to save money, and to that tiny London outfit we’re dealing with, it looked like the company was barely holding on.
They were terrified he’d run the whole thing straight into the ground if they sold to CTEC. ”
“Oh, Matthew… He’s—”
“Cowardly. Old. No vision. A giant fucking pussy,” Max interjects, finishing his father’s sentence for him. “At least, that’s what people have been saying.”
“Who?” his father asks, narrowing his eyes.
“You know it’s true.” Max sidesteps the question with a slight shrug.
“The charts have been in decline for years. CTEC has missed revenue targets for three years straight. Cash is burning fast, and multiple senior executives have quit,” he continues, gesturing for emphasis.
“Isn’t that why you brought me back here?
I was your last resort. No one else wanted to touch this company with a ten-foot pole. ”
“It was too soon for Matthew to take on that role.”
“Maybe it’s time to stop babying your fifty-five-year-old golden child. It’s embarrassing.”
“Max.” His father’s voice takes on a warning edge. “You were a damn addict.”
“Yeah, but did you think anyone in my position wouldn’t need something to cope with everything you put me through as a kid?
” Max snaps, heat rising as memories surface.
“You abused the shit out of me. Locked me in Zeus’s cage for hours at a time,” he continues, recalling being shoved into the crate that once held their family’s Great Dane.
“Then, when I needed help, you all just cast me aside to die. I did some cocaine, a little oxy here and there—oh, big fucking deal. So did everyone else. It’s not like I was out there smoking meth. ”
“…You didn’t?”
“Once,” Max admits. “But that’s not the point.”
Michael scoffs, but Max remains undeterred, rising to clasp his father’s hand with both of his own. To Max, the incident was nothing more than a one-time experiment, a lapse in judgment at a party. It’s something his father would never understand. And Max hadn’t come here to explain.
“I came back, didn’t I? I’m fully recovered now,” Max says firmly.
“I spent years proving myself while Matt enjoyed getting everything handed to him from day one. I’m someone who gets shit done—no matter what it takes.
Look at my work in Singapore. Not to mention everything I’ve accomplished since returning.
I’ve pulled off things no one else here could manage. Think about it.”
“What do you want? A fucking pat on the back? Spit it out,” his father demands.
“He hasn’t shown he’s capable of leading effectively without you hovering over his shoulder. And let’s be frank—you don’t have much time left to babysit.”
Max looks down at his father’s sickly face, a wry smile tugging at his mouth.
“He’s weak when it comes to actual decision-making. There are whispers he should be fired,” Max finally says after a brief pause. Once a man who would have cowered at the thought of angering his father, he now stands unshaken, meeting his father’s furious gaze with calm, steady resolve.
“Are you suggesting your own brother be fired?” Michael asks, his eyes widening in shock. Disbelief drips from his voice at the audacity of the proposal. He instinctively pulls his hand away from Max’s grasp, as if realizing he’s just shaken hands with the Devil himself.
“No. If it were up to me, I’d have him resign—gracefully—with a fat fucking severance package,” Max says, waving his hand as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“I wouldn’t ever suggest firing my own brother.
Do I look stupid? Picture the optics: two grown men squabbling over a dying company while their father is on his deathbed. ”
Michael’s expression remains unreadable as Max continues, his voice low and insistent.