12. Max #2
I just hope she doesn’t end up pointed at us.
I’m up before dawn.
An old habit from a time when my father used to drag me out of bed at five every morning, rain or shine, to review the day’s schedule before breakfast. Discipline builds empires, he’d say, his cold green eyes, so like mine, sweeping over me for any sign of weakness. Laziness destroys them.
The one lesson of his I kept.
The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of dew-damp grass and something floral. Mist clings to the low places, burning off slowly as the sun crests the treeline.
I take my time. It’s early enough that no one needs anything from me yet, and I intend to make the most of it.
The main building emerges from the mist ahead of me, its windows already bright with the morning light.
My father would have hated it. He’s been dead for twelve years, but somehow I always think of that when I make this walk.
I remember walking this same path as a child. Eight years old, maybe nine. The manor loomed where Synthera stands now, dark and imposing, casting long shadows across the grounds even at midday. My father strode ahead of me, his pace punishing, never slowing to let me catch up.
Keep up, Maxwell. A Cavill doesn’t lag behind.
I was practically running, my short legs burning with the effort.
There was a man waiting for us around the side of the building. I don’t remember his name, only his face, pale, sweating, terrified. He was on his knees in the dirt, two of my father’s security guards flanking him.
This is what happens to people who steal from me, my father said, his voice calm, almost conversational. Watch closely, son. You need to learn.
I watched. I didn’t have a choice.
The man’s screams stayed with me for weeks. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, hearing them echo off the walls of my bedroom. When I told my mother, she held me close and stroked my hair and said nothing at all.
She knew. She always knew. And she was just as trapped as I was.
“Mr. Cavill! Good morning!”
Roberto’s voice cuts through the memory. I blink, and I’m back in the present, standing in the garden, the mist swirling around my ankles, the glass building gleaming ahead.
Roberto is kneeling by one of the rose beds, his weathered hands buried in the soil, moving with the easy grace of a man half his age.
“Morning, Roberto.” I change course to meet him. “You’re here early.”
“The roses don’t care what time it is.” He pushes himself to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. His face is a map of deep lines and sun damage, and his eyes are bright and warm. “They want water when they want water.”
“How’s Candice? Her hip still bothering her?”
Roberto’s face softens the way it always does when he talks about his wife. Over fifty years of marriage, and he still looks at her like she hung the moon.
“Better,” he says. “The new medication is helping. She wanted me to thank you again for arranging that specialist. Dr. Higgins is a miracle worker, she says.”
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing to us.” He reaches out and grips my shoulder, his hand rough and calloused. “You’re a good man, Max. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Something tightens in my chest. I clear my throat and look away.
“I should get inside. Early meeting.”
“Of course, of course.” Roberto waves me off with a knowing smile. “Go run your empire. I’ll be here, talking to the roses.”
I leave him to his work and continue toward the building, his words echoing in my head.
You’re a good man, Max.
I wish I believed that.
The lobby is quiet when I push through the glass doors. Lucy is already at the reception desk, her smile bright and her coffee steaming in its mug.
“Good morning, Mr. Cavill!”
“Morning, Lucy.” I nod as I pass. “Quiet so far?”
“Just the way you like it.” She winks.
The elevator carries me to the fourth floor in smooth silence. It’s empty at this hour, the offices dark. I make my way to the coffee station tucked into an alcove near the conference rooms.
The machine hums to life. The smell of fresh coffee fills the small space, rich and bitter.
I take my cup to the window and look out over the grounds.
From here, I can see the gardens below, Roberto’s roses bright against the green, and the fountain where I watched Sophie charm him yesterday.
And yet.
You think you can erase me, boy? My father’s voice, cold and mocking, rising from some dark corner of my mind. You think tearing down my house changes anything? You’re still my son. My blood runs in your veins. Everything you are, everything you’ve built, it all started with me.
My grip tightens on the coffee cup.
Shut up.
You can’t escape what you are, Maxwell. You can play at being good, play at being different, but we both know the truth. You’re just like me. You’ll always be just like me.
I said shut up.
I drain the rest of my coffee in one long swallow, letting it scald my throat, the pain sharp and clarifying.
You’re dead, I think, and the words are sharp, vicious, a knife I’ve been sharpening for twelve years. You’re rotting in the ground where you belong. And everything you built? I burned it down and built something better on the ashes.
Something that could have set her free.
The voice doesn’t answer. It never does, when I fight back.
I set the empty cup down on the windowsill and stare out at the grounds, my grounds, my company, my legacy.
You don’t own me anymore, Theodore. You never will again.
Behind me, the elevator chimes. Voices drift down the corridor, the day beginning in earnest.
I straighten my shoulders, smooth my expression, and turn away from the window.
Some ghosts you can’t bury, no matter how hard you try. They just follow you, always.