The Weight Of Expectations

Ethan's POV 

I push open the heavy wooden door, the polished brass handle cold against my palm. The familiar scent of leather and cigar smoke wafts out, transporting me to a lifetime of memories within these walls.

As I step into Father's office, the door closes behind me with a soft click. The sound echoes through the room, a reminder of the weighty discussions that often take place here.

The room is dimly lit, the only light emanating from the floor lamps positioned in the corners. The shadows cast by the lamps seem to stretch and twist, like living things.

Father sits behind his massive mahogany desk, his chair turned slightly to face the window. As Father turns back to face the window, my gaze follows his. The city skyline stretches out beyond the glass, a breathtaking panorama of steel and concrete. The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over the towering skyscrapers, their reflections glinting in the windows of adjacent buildings.

To the left, the river snakes its way through the city, its calm surface broken only by the occasional boat or ferry. The water's edge is lined with parks and walkways, where people stroll and enjoy the view.

In the distance, the sleek, modern architecture of the financial district gives way to the older, more historic buildings of the city's core. The intricate stonework and ornate details of these structures seem to whisper stories of the past.

Closer, the Blackwood Industries building stands tall, its sleek, black glass façade reflecting the sky above. The company logo, emblazoned on the side of the building, seems to shimmer in the fading light.

As I take in the view, I feel a sense of pride and responsibility. This is the empire Father has built, the legacy I'm expected to carry on.

But alongside the pride, a thread of unease weaves its way through my thoughts. what role am I expected to play in it all?

The view, once a symbol of power and success, now seems tainted by the weight of expectation. The city, once full of possibility, feels claustrophobic, its skyscrapers looming over me like sentinels.

Father's voice breaks the spell, drawing me back to the present.

"Ethan, my boy," he says, his words dripping with calculation.

I turn, my heart heavy with foreboding. What does Father have planned?

For a moment, I hesitate, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of expectation.

"Father?" I say, my voice low and cautious.

He turns, his eyes locking onto mine. The piercing gaze makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"It is time," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "Come forward, come forward."

I move forward, my footsteps quiet on the plush carpet. The silence between us is oppressive, a physical presence that presses against my skin.

As I approach the desk, Father's expression becomes clearer. His eyes seem to bore into my soul, searching for something.

I feel a shiver run down my spine. What does he want?

"Father, what is it?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Father leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. He steeples his fingers, the tips pressing together in a precise, calculated gesture.

The movement sends a shiver down my spine. It's a familiar gesture, one that signals Father's mind is working overtime, weighing strategies and outcomes.

As he steeples his fingers, his eyes seem to bore deeper into mine, searching for any sign of weakness or hesitation. The gesture is both a physical and psychological barrier, a reminder of the power dynamic between us.

My heart rate quickens, my palms growing damp. I feel like I'm trapped in a game of chess, with Father maneuvering me into a corner.

The steepled fingers also bring back memories of past confrontations, times when Father's calculated calm has left me feeling frustrated and powerless.

I recall the countless times he's used this gesture to dismiss my concerns, to belittle my emotions. The memories flood my mind, making my jaw clench and my fists tighten.

Father's eyes narrow, his gaze intensifying. He senses my tension, and his expression turns calculating.

"Ethan, my boy, it's time to secure Alessia's cooperation," he says, his voice low and measured.

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I feel like I'm being pulled into a web of deceit, with Father holding the threads.

My mind reels, searching for an escape. But Father's steepled fingers seem to hold me in place, trapping me in his carefully laid plans.

I force myself to breathe, to think clearly. What does he want from me? What does this mean for Alessia?

I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Marry Alessia Thompson? The thought sends my mind reeling.

"But Father—" I begin, searching for words.

He cuts me off, his voice cold.

"There's no discussion, Ethan. This is business. You'll do what's necessary to secure Blackwood Industries' future."

I rise from my seat, frustration boiling over.

"You can't seriously expect me to marry someone I barely know, just for business," I protest.

Father's expression turns icy.

"I expect you to do what's necessary, Ethan. For the family. For the company."

The weight of his words crushes me. I feel trapped, caught between loyalty to my family and my own desires.

"Alessia deserves better than a loveless marriage," I argue, trying to appeal to whatever humanity is left in him.

Father's smile twists.

"Alessia will do what's necessary, just like you. She knows the stakes."

I wonder if Alessia truly understands what she's getting herself into.

"What about her feelings?" I press, desperate to make Father see reason.

He waves his hand dismissively.

"Feelings are irrelevant. This is business."

The conversation is over. Father's made his decision.

I leave his office, feeling defeated and trapped. Marry Alessia? I don't know if I can do it.

As I walk out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The reflection shows a stranger, someone I no longer recognize.

What have I become?

The question haunts me as I make my way to Blackwood Manor's gardens, seeking fresh air and clarity.

But the gardens, once a sanctuary, now feel suffocating.

I'm trapped in a gilded cage, forced to dance to Father's tune.

And Alessia? She's about to become my partner in this twisted waltz.