the unseen chains

Dylan drove in silence, the hum of the engine doing little to quiet the thoughts in his head. He exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel tighter.Get a grip.He needed a distraction, something to shake the weight off his chest. Training. Training was the only thing that ever worked.As he pulled into the Sports Hub complex, his focus sharpened. He had arrived early—not because he had to, but because there was nothing else to do. No place he wanted to be. No one he wanted to see.Then he saw it.A Rolls-Royce, parked just ahead.His hands stiffened on the wheel. He didn't need to check the plate to know whose car it was.His father was here.His father's car.Dylan's jaw tightened. His father had called him multiple times since the incident, but he had ignored every call. And now, instead of waiting for a response, the man had shown up at his practice session.Dylan walked into the locker room, grabbed his kit, and headed straight for the tennis court. But just as he was about to step onto the court, his coach, Ramsay, stopped him."Your father is waiting for you in my office," Ramsay informed him.Dylan exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the handle of his racket. He looked up toward the office window and saw a broad-shouldered man, dressed in a sharp suit, with a black round hat perched neatly on his head. A cigar rested between his fingers, its smoke curling in the air as he stared down at Dylan with an unreadable expression.Francesco Mansfield. His father.Dylan stepped into the coach's office, but it no longer felt like Ramsay's space. His father had already made it his own.Francesco Mansfield stood by the window, watching the game outside with a cigar smoldering between his fingers. Two bodyguards flanked him, silent and unmoving. A man sat nearby, typing away on a laptop—ready to connect Francesco to his office at a moment's notice. Another helper stood by, pouring wine into two crystal glasses, completing the picture of control and power.Francesco exhaled a plume of smoke and scoffed at the match unfolding on the court. "They're playing rubbish," he muttered. "No grit, no hunger. Just boys cutting slack, playing for fun. I was hoping to see your game instead. You would have torn them apart with your strength and ferocity."Finally, he turned, his sharp gaze locking onto Dylan's bandaged face. He studied him in silence, then let out a slow sigh. "Could've been worse," he muttered. "That principal, though—an absolute fool. He's done. By tomorrow, he won't be your problem anymore. And those boys?" He scoffed. "They won't so much as look at you again. Their parents understand... my expectations."He gestured toward the chair across from him. "Now, sit down, my boy, and tell me—why didn't you pick up my calls?"Dylan didn't have the right answer for that. The truth was simple—he ignored the calls because he didn't want to talk to him. But that was easy when his father wasn't around. Now, standing before him, with the weight of his presence pressing down, it was different. His father had a way of making silence feel like a crime, of making defiance seem futile.His fingers tightened into a fist, a subtle effort to ground himself. "My phone was in the car," he said, keeping his tone level. "I didn't see your call.""You didn't see my call?" He placed the cigar between his lips, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he picked up the wineglass, swirling the liquid inside with deliberate ease. His voice remained calm, but there was an edge to it—one that always preceded something worse."Don't hide your gaze from me."Dylan hesitated, but before he could respond, his father's expression darkened, his features hardening like stone. The shift was immediate, the air around him growing heavier."First, you disobey me," he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, razor-sharp edge. "And now, you lie."Dylan stayed silent, fear tightening its grip around his body like an iron chain. His father's presence always carried weight—an unspoken authority that left little room for defiance.Francesco continued, his voice smoother now, almost coaxing. "I didn't teach you to lie, my son. That's why you're bad at it." He let out a slow sigh, shaking his head. "Besides, you could've just told me you didn't want to talk. After everything I've done for you, you still pushed me away. Wanted your distance. I let you have it because a boy your age needs his freedom."He took a sip of his wine, then set the glass down, his gaze never leaving Dylan's face. "But you can't stop me from taking care of my son."Dylan met his father's eyes for a brief second before looking away. Francesco gestured toward the glass on the table. "Drink that wine."Dylan hesitated, but the look in his father's eyes left no room for refusal. He picked up the glass and obeyed.Francesco nodded approvingly. "Your game is coming, and I want nothing but a win. A Grand Slam title." He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, heavier. "I don't want a loser for a son, Dylan. You can have whatever you want—money, cars, women—but bring me that trophy." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Make me proud."As he was speaking, the man standing beside him leaned down and whispered something into Francesco's ear. Francesco gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he turned his attention back to Dylan, who sat stiffly in his chair, feeling small beneath his father's towering presence."I had hoped to watch you play today, but I must go now," Francesco said, his voice carrying a finality that left no room for argument. He stepped forward, his gaze sharp as he studied his son. Then, with an almost expectant air, he said, "Stand up and give your father a hug."Dylan obeyed, standing up reluctantly and stepping into his father's embrace. Francesco's arms tightened around him—not in warmth, but in a grip that felt more like control than comfort.Then, in a low voice, his father murmured into his ear, "Next time, if anyone tries to mess with you, I want you to kill him. I don't want some idiot principal calling me and disturbing my schedule over petty matters."Dylan stiffened, his breath catching for a moment. His father's words were not a figure of speech; they never were. Francesco Mansfield did not make empty statements.Dylan nodded silently, his gaze fixed ahead as his father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, guiding him out of the office. They made their way to the court, where two boys were practicing under the watchful eye of Coach Ramsay. As they approached, the coach's eyes flickered to them, his face shifting from concentration to anxious servitude.Upon seeing Francesco and his entourage, Coach Ramsay quickly rushed over to them, his steps almost frantic, a smile plastered on his face. His words tumbled out like a rehearsed script, his tone excessively eager.Ramsay hurried over, wiping his palms on his tracksuit before clasping them together, his fingers twitching slightly. "M-Mr. Mansfield," he stammered, forcing a smile. "Are you—are you leaving already? I—I was hoping you'd stay and watch Dylan's game. It would mean a lot to us—uh, to him."He let out a nervous chuckle, shifting his weight. "It's—it's an honor to have you here. I always say, real champions aren't just born—they're made. And Dylan, well, he's got your blood, so of course, he's... he's different. Special."He cleared his throat quickly, realizing he might have overstepped. "I—I mean, you must be proud. Not that you'd expect anything less, of course."Dylan sensed the coach's desperate attempt to please, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable. His father barely acknowledged it, offering only a slight, knowing glance—this level of flattery was nothing new. Instead of responding, Francesco let the moment stretch, his gaze drifting over the court, watching the boys play as if the weight in the air didn't exist.Francesco's voice was calm but authoritative, and Dylan could sense the shift in the atmosphere as his father continued his words. His father's presence seemed to drain the warmth from the surroundings, making the air thick with unspoken power."I would have loved to stay," Francesco continued, his words smooth as silk. "But an urgent meeting called for me. Besides, I wouldn't want to disturb you in coaching my son. You have very important business to accomplish.""Dylan's sharper than ever," Ramsay remarked, his voice steady yet brimming with certainty. "I'm sure he'll come out on top."Francesco nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips, though there was no warmth in it. "That's what I like to hear," he replied, his voice laced with approval. "Now, if you ever need anything from me for your facility, don't be shy calling my secretary. I'd be happy to assist."A silence followed Francesco's words, the air thick with the unspoken power he held, a chilling reminder of the control he exerted over everyone in the room; you could sense the fear in the silence. Dylan couldn't help but feel the pressure building within him, a sense of being trapped under the weight of his father's expectations.Coach Ramsay smiled broadly, eager to ingratiate himself further. "Of course, Mr. Mansfield. Thank you."Francesco gave a last nod, a subtle but decisive movement that ended their conversation. His hand tightened briefly on Dylan's shoulder before he began walking toward the exit. The entourage followed like shadows, leaving the coach standing in their wake. Dylan could feel the eyes of everyone on him as they walked away, their silent judgment making him feel small despite his stature.Dylan stormed onto the court, his father's harsh words echoing in his mind, fueling a simmering rage inside him. His fingers tightened around the racket, knuckles going pale from the pressure. Without a moment's hesitation, he swung with everything he had, unleashing his fury with each strike of the ball. Each slam felt like an attempt to release the suffocating anger that had been building up inside him. The ball soared, but the force of his swings made it difficult for him to keep up. His movements were erratic, a blur of frustration and rage.The sweat poured down his face, dripping onto his shirt, but he didn't care. The physical pain in his body—his muscles screaming in protest—was nothing compared to the emotional torment he felt. Every hit felt like it might bring some semblance of relief, but the more he hit, the more the ache in his chest seemed to grow. His hands throbbed, his legs burned, but Dylan didn't stop. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.He was no longer playing the game. He was trying to break free from the invisible chains that his father had wrapped around him, but it was futile. His body was giving in. The racket slipped from his grip, and he collapsed to the ground, chest heaving, his body exhausted and sore. The court seemed to spin around him, his vision blurred by a mix of sweat and unshed tears. For a moment, he lay there, too tired to move, the fury inside him simmering beneath the surface, waiting to boil over once again.