AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Riding a unicycle.
I've always done that, drawn things or people who catch my attention. Nothing too crazy. Just some scribbles, here and there. If nothing was of note on a given day, I'll make up scenes in my head. Anything to pass the time.
With a bored yawn, I flick my wrist, outlining the shape of his curly hair, opting for a wide, lazy shading technique. Until I'm arching my back, drawing closer and closer, detailing each individual hair, then expanding outward, utilizing more of the document's real estate, invading lines of business jargon and financial numbers and—
"You never change, do you?"
My pencil jerks, slicing clean through his suit. Annoyance ticks my jaw, as the man who's always an overcast on my sunny day rounds my desk, looming right in front of me. I crane my head back, feeling like a child, but I don't show it on my face.
I smirk instead, plastering on a mask of innocence, loving when a vein flares across his forehead. "Whatever do you mean, Father?" He may control my trust fund, but I'll be damned if I let him think his coldness has any effect on me.
"Don't play dumb with me, boy." His arms fold across his suit-clad chest. "It's just like you're still in school. Scribbling little doodles, when you should be working. No wonder you never learn anything."
He snorts, shooting Doris a smile, who stands behind him, carrying a stack of paperwork. She returns a grin, yet to my surprise, when he shifts his gaze back to me, she offers me a look that I swear carries an undertone of sympathy.
When I stare past her frame, I catch half of the room snap their attention back to their work.
I'd attribute their prying eyes to the presence of their president and CEO, but it's more than that. Warren Kingston isn't that rare of a sighting, especially on this floor. Granted, I haven't actually seen him since starting my job over a week ago, but I'm sure that's because he's just doing what he does best—avoiding the pit stain of his family.
I digress.
Spotting a CEO outside the door of his Director of Finance? Not that remarkable. But you know what is? Seeing one chastise his lousy son, while his golden child wages fiscal warfare ten paces away. The employees here, they may eagerly run in the hamster wheel of capitalism, hungry for bonuses and promotions and recognition, but they'll take any chance they can get to watch a spoiled, good-for-nothing billionaire's son rot.
It's like Thanksgiving dinner to them, and I plan on cooking their eyes one hell of a feast, as long as it'll embarrass the man who brought me into this world, then hired others to raise me.
Standing to my full height, I clear my throat. "Well, aren't you—"
"I don't have time for your excuses." He breezes past my desk, aiming for my brother's office. "You're Doris's problem now," he says, before slamming the door shut.
I blink, as an aching silence spreads throughout the room. It takes a moment, but distant chatter soon picks up, unlike Doris's pitiful expression.
Don't worry, I want to tell her as I sit back down. This isn't my first day under my brother's shadow.
Returning to her desk, she stutters, for perhaps the first time in her life. "Uh-uhm... Could you update your father's time sheet? I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on."
"Sure." I pull up the program, thankful for the distraction. Something mindless and easy. Like purposely asking a question I've already voiced—"Remind me again, why we clock their hours? My brother and father aren't paid by the hour, obviously."
Instead of shooting me her usual glare, Doris plays along. "It's just a personal record us assistants keep, to help track of our bosses' whereabouts. It makes hunting them down easier, when they go radio silent."
"Ahh," I hum, scrolling through the now-familiar program. I've been tracking Elias's hours for the past week, so finding my father's timesheet is easy as—
Wait a minute.
I blink... then blink some more... then give Doris a look, who's engrossed in her paperwork. I even refresh the page—three times—because what I'm seeing cannot be right. "Uhhhhhhh, Doris?"
"Yeah?"
"Why has my father only logged ten hours this week?"
She goes quiet for a moment.
I whip my gaze, finding her stare frozen and locked onto me, swimming with mysteries. Did something happen? Why isn't she saying anything? Cinching my brows, I look again, flicking through the prior weeks. Ten hours. Twelve hours. Nine, seventeen—even three. While my brother's working eighty, sometimes more.
He's got a pull-out sofa in there, for fuck's sake.
With each click, the answer becomes clearer and clearer, until I'm staring into Doris's mysteries once more, seeing right through to the truth.
He lets Elias do all the work.
