CONTROLLED VARIABLES
795 Words
Christian's POV
Mornings in my house are structured.
Not warm. Not chaotic. Structured.
I knock once before entering Tristan’s room. He’s already dressed in his uniform, struggling slightly with his cuff.
“Hold still.”
He does immediately.
I walk over and lift the hem of his shirt without asking. The bruise along his side has faded to a dull yellow. Healing. Good.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No.”
It probably does. But he says it the way I would have at his age. I don’t challenge it.
I replace the bandage carefully.
“You will avoid running. No sports. No unnecessary movement.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I lower his shirt and straighten his collar. My hand lingers for a fraction of a second before I step back.
I don’t like not knowing details.
I don’t like that someone else treated him.
I especially don’t like that I wasn’t informed first.
As he picks up his bag, he pauses.
“Oh. I almost forgot. The nurse at the clinic said you need to sign something. A clinical pass or medical form.”
My attention sharpens.
“Clinic?”
“Yeah. The one I went to,at the school.”
I study him for a moment.
“Very well. I’ll handle it.”
He nods, satisfied, and leaves.
I remain standing there after the door closes.
The clinic again.
I noted it and leave for work.
The lobby stills when I enter the building.
Conversations thin out. Postures straighten. The receptionist nearly drops her tablet.
I don’t slow my steps.
I’ve grown accustomed to the reaction.
As I approach the private elevator, a whisper drifts across the marble floor.
“Oh my God, he’s so unfairly attractive.”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious. How is he still single?”
“Best part is he built this company without touching his father’s money.”
“That’s the hottest part.”
A soft laugh.
“And there’s never been any woman. No scandals.”
A pause.
“Do you think he—”
Silence.
Because I’ve stepped into view.
They scatter.
Inside the elevator, Matthias stands waiting.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Schedule.”
“Board meeting at nine. Investor call at eleven. Legal review at one. HR also submitted a report regarding employee gossip.”
I press the elevator button.
“Should I address it?” he asks.
“No.”
The doors slide shut.
“Gossip corrects itself. Intervention gives it importance.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boardroom smells of polished wood and tension.
I listen as projections flash across the screen.
Revenue growth. Expansion strategy. Risk mitigation.
Halfway through the CFO’s presentation, I speak.
“You’re assuming market stability.”
The room quiets instantly.
“Yes, based on current—”
“Current trends are volatile.”
I lean back slightly.
“What happens when foreign trade restrictions tighten in Q3?”
Silence.
He doesn’t have an answer.
“Revise your projections with a ten percent restriction buffer,” I say evenly. “Optimism is not strategy.”
No one argues.
They never do.
By the time the meeting ends, the numbers are already being recalculated.
Back in my office, the city stretches endlessly beyond the glass.
I remove my jacket and place it over the chair.
On my desk sits a framed photograph.
Tristan. Three years old. Missing front tooth. Laughing.
I built everything myself.
Every contract. Every late night. Every calculated risk.
Not for reputation.
Not for validation.
But so my son would never grow up feeling second.
A knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Enter.”
Matthias steps inside.
“Anything else sir before your next meeting?”
“There’s a school matter,” I say.
“Yes, sir?”
“You need to go to Tristan’s school.”
“Of course.”
“He mentioned something about a clinic. A nurse informed him that I need to sign a medical pass.”
“Understood.”
“Speak to the administration. Sign whatever requires my authorization.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hesitates slightly.
“Should I arrange additional security to shadow him more closely?”
“No.”
My tone doesn’t change.
“If something serious had occurred, I would already know.”
A brief pause.
“You may increase discreet surveillance for the week,” I add. “Nothing intrusive. I don’t raise fragile children.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Matthias.”
“Yes?”
“Find out about the clinic that treated him.”
He doesn’t question me.
“Yes, sir.”
When he leaves, I turn back toward the window.
A clinic.
A nurse.
An injury I was not informed about.
I dislike missing details.
And I never ignore them.
- Writer
