Chapter Two - The Quiet Before The Storm
950 Words
Two days earlier
Mornings in the Reed household weren’t quiet—they were calculated. From the way the newspaper was folded to how the breakfast was plated, everything followed a schedule as rigid as his father’s jawline.
Nick stared at the untouched toast in front of him, one leg bouncing under the table. His mother scrolled through her tablet without a word, and his father read the business column like it was scripture. For most people, silence meant peace. Here, it was pressure.
“You know you could get any job you want, Nicholas,” his father finally said, not looking up. “If you ever decide to actually want one.”
Nick didn’t flinch. The comment itself was a reminder—Nick was capable, brilliant, and, therefore, wasting time by being… himself.
“I’m working,” he said, calmly. “Third book.”
“That’s not work. That’s a hobby that got lucky twice.”
He didn’t respond. Because if he did, it wouldn’t end well.
It was the same conversation every day, a constant reminder that Nick wasn’t living up to their expectations.
It always circled back to that. The empire. The inheritance. The multi-million-dollar business that his father built from the ground up and now expected his only son to take over. Except Nick didn’t want to run a company. He wanted to write.
And he had written. Two novels—published and praised. He wasn’t some kid playing pretend. But to them, unless it made headlines or generated revenue like their quarterly reports, it wasn’t real.
He glanced at the open notebook beside him, pages filled with half-sentences and scratched-out metaphors. His third novel had stalled. He needed quiet. Not silence, not luxury. Just quiet—the kind that lived in old libraries or forgotten classrooms, the kind that didn’t breathe down his neck.
Later that day, Nick sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the black suit laid out in front of him. It was tailored to perfection, just like everything else in his life. But unlike the expectations, the suffocating mansion, or the constant backhanded remarks—this suit didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like armor.
He slipped it on slowly, buttoning the jacket with ease. The navy lining peeked just beneath the lapel, complimenting his sharp collarbones. A silver watch rested against his wrist. His dark brown hair, usually tousled, was pushed back with a carelessness that somehow made him look even better. And when he finally checked the mirror, he didn’t see the son his parents were disappointed in—he saw a man who knew exactly what he wanted.
The party was held at the grand ballroom of the Astoria, all glass chandeliers and expensive champagne. Nick walked in alone, attracting a few lingering glances from older women and envious ones from younger men. He didn’t bother with small talk. He hated the hollow praise, the empty laughs. Everyone here had something to prove. He didn’t.
Nick Reed stood by the bar, half-listening to another congratulatory speech about “Reed Enterprises hitting another milestone!” while he stirred the ice in his untouched glass. He wasn’t surprised by the achievement—his father’s empire ran like a machine, every part oiled with generational wealth and ruthless efficiency. He just didn’t care.
“Smile a little, Nicholas. You’re the future of this.”
His father’s voice was clipped, cheerful for appearances but firm beneath the surface.
Nick didn’t bother replying.
He didn’t want to be the future of it. He didn’t even want to be present.
“Nick, meet my friend—Daniel Hart. He’s the chairman of a very reputed college nearby.” his father said.
Nick turned, ready to nod politely and disappear. But something about Daniel was different. He wasn’t all smiles and champagne flutes. He looked tired. Real.
“And what are you doing these days, Nick?” Daniel asked, voice rough like gravel but not unfriendly.
Nick hesitated, then answered honestly, “I’m focusing on my writing. I’ve published two novels and I’m working on my third.”
Daniel raised his brows. “Published? What are the titles?”
Nick told him, expecting the usual blank nod. Instead, Daniel blinked slowly.
“I’ve read The Last Echo. That was you?”
Nick nodded.
“You’re… what? Twenty-four?”
“Just turned.”
Daniel shook his head, smiling to himself. “Didn’t see that coming. That book didn’t feel like it came from a twenty-four-year-old.”
Before Nick could reply, his father chimed in. “He’s also the top literature scholar in the country, but he refuses to do anything with it.”
Nick bit back a sigh.
Daniel didn’t seem to notice the tension. “That’s funny,” he said, glancing at his glass. “I’m actually in a bind right now. One of our English professors—Monroe—quit without notice. Just walked out yesterday. Midterm chaos. We’re struggling to find a replacement.”
He paused.
Then, with a half-smile, he turned to Nick. “You ever thought of teaching?”
Nick blinked. “Teaching?”
“Temporary position. Just until we find someone more permanent. You’d have to move to the faculty quarters on campus.”
His father, of course, jumped in. “That’s perfect. A job. Structure. Something meaningful.”
Nick didn’t answer right away.
Teaching? It wasn’t what he wanted. But the idea of getting out—of living somewhere quiet, away from constant scrutiny—was tempting. He’d have his own space. No expectations. Just time. Time to finish what he started.
So he said yes. Not for the job. Not for the money.
But for the silence.
- Writer
