Page 24 of Knox's Boy

I set the phone down, forcing myself to pick up a pen. The ink flowed smoothly onto the heavy paper of the contract, but my mind was already racing ahead to the potential punishments for "mostly" good behavior.

Buzz.

Florian: Well, I didn't buy the textbook for Brain Anatomy because it was $300 and that seemed like a scam. I found a PDF online instead. ?? And I did eat lunch. A real one. Not just a RedBull. Though I may have had one of those too... Don't be mad, Daddy. The cafeteria line was sooooo long and I had to stay awake somehow.

I felt a tightness in my chest loosen. He was eating. I had transferred a significant allowance to him the morning after the car incident, but knowing Florian, he probably felt guilty spending a dime of it.

We had agreed to start a dynamic in a low-key way. We texted every day, loads of banter, getting to know each other with dates in between. So far, it had been the light of my days, getting those texts, yearning to meet him in person again. It made me feel like a teenager again.

Me: Good boy. Nutrition is non-negotiable. ONE Red Bull is fine. Buy the book, Florian. Use the card. If I see you failing because you were too stubborn to use my resources, we will have a very different conversation when we see each other again.

I hit send just as my office door opened. My assistant Sarah, a woman of formidable efficiency who had managed my life for a decade without ever cracking a smile, stepped in. She was blond and beautiful, and knew I respected her above all, and not every boss did that.

"Mr. Knox? The board is ready for the quarterly projection review."

I cleared my throat, the transition from Daddy to CEO taking a split second longer than I would have liked. "Thank you. I'll be right there."

She lingered for a fraction of a second, her gaze darting to the phone still illuminated in my hand, then back to my face. Shedidn't say anything, she would never, but the slight arch of her eyebrow spoke volumes. I was never late. I was never distracted.

I stood, clearing my throat, buttoning my jacket, and slid the phone into my inner pocket. It rested against my ribs.

The boardroom was air-conditioned to a sterile chill, probably to make everyone a little uncomfortable. Twelve men and women in suits sat around the elongated oval table, shuffling papers. I took my seat at the head. Before inheriting my parents’ business, I never imagined rooms like this actually existed in real life, only in movies.

"Let's begin," I said. "The Q3 figures for the shipping division are concerning."

As the CFO began his drone about fuel costs and international tariffs, I felt the phantom vibration against my chest. I ignored it. I was a man of discipline.

Two minutes passed.

Buzz.

It was subtle, muffled by the wool of my suit, but it felt like a shout. I shifted in my chair. The CFO was pointing at a graph that looked like a descending staircase.

Buzz.

I casually reached into my jacket, keeping my face fixed on the presentation screen with an expression of deep, analytical contemplation. I pulled the phone out under the lip of the table, shielding it with my palm.

Florian: [Image Attachment]

I tapped it. It was a photo of a quiz paper, the top corner circled in red ink: 98% - Excellent Work!Beneath the paper, I could see his thighs, clad in worn denim, and just a hint of his hand resting casually, provocatively, near his crotch.

Florian: Do I get a reward for acing my test, Daddy? I deserve one! Please!

A sound escaped me, a short, rough huff of laughter that sounded terrifyingly loud in the quiet room.

The CFO stopped mid-sentence. "Sir? Is there an error in the projections?"

I looked up. Every face at the table was turned toward me. The silence was absolute. I realized then that my thumb was stroking the side of the phone, a caress meant for the boy miles away.

"No," I said, smoothing my features into a mask of indifference, though I felt the heat of amusement curling in my gut. "Continue, Josh. The EBITDA looks... promising. Carry on."

I saw two junior executives at the far end of the table exchange a glance. One mouthed something to the other.Promising? Usually, I would have flayed Josh alive for numbers like these. But today, the numbers didn't matter. What mattered was the boy who had begun to bloom under my attention. The sass was just his way of asking for more while pretending he didn't need it.

Under the table, I typed a reply.

Me: 98 is acceptable. The other 2 percent suggests you were distracted. We can discuss your reward later. I have something in mind.

He knew I was just playing. I knew 98 for a boy who was days from failing sounded like a small miracle. Knowing I helped him indirectly made my whole body warm.