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“What’s happening?” he asks when he finally notices my silence.
“Was thinking about the idea of taking Gen-Alpha public.”
That’s a sure way to get his attention. That’s a topic we discussed before and the one he absolutely hates.
“Are you high?” His sudden snappy tone is an indication.
“I’m not. I know it doesn’t fit with your plans.”
“Myplans? Son, are you drunk? My plans areyourplans and theboard’splans.”
“I know, I know. But I was thinking lately…” I take a deep breath.
Conversations with my dad are never easy. He won’t give in to anything that’s not in his interest. Even if it comes from his own son. Not that he cares about me any more than his assistants, one of which he’s probably fucking. Typical.
“I did some calculations and an alternative business plan for the next five years—”
“There is no alternative, Archer,” he cuts me off sharply and barks something at the person next to him. “What is this nonsense?”
“Taking the drug public, dropping the price, making it accessible through healthcare. Ninety-five countries. In a five-year projection that’s almost as much money as—”
“It’s exclusive. This isnotabout money, and you know it.”
Fuck! He never listens.
It’s about politics and power and Big Pharma. I’m not trying to be a Good Samaritan here—I simply want out. I don’t want the responsibility.
“Stop with this nonsense, Archer. You are smarter than that.”
He doesn’t get it. Never will. He and I haven’t had a normal conversation outside work in two years.
“Son, I gotta go. Did Amir bring up something like that?”
“It has nothing to do with Amir.”
“Of course not. I didn’t think so.”
Dad hangs up before I get a chance to say goodbye.
Whatever.
He is so caught up in politics that he forgot what it’s like to live and only knows how to barrel through life in his bullet-proof Maybach with an army of assistants and secretaries and the White House staff, agendas, occasional blowjobs, late-night drinking, and high blood pressure.
People like him never stop. Moreover, they think their life is worth thousands of others. It took me two years and replaying the conversation before that fateful Spring Break to realize it.
“Take your best crew to Zion for Spring Break,” Dad says. “Have the time of your life.”
“I can have the time of my life in Tulum,” I snap.
“No. Take the private jet. Go to Zion. I own the resorts. Splurge. I’m paying.”
“The generosity…” I smirk.
“Do what I fucking say,” he snaps.
His words feel like bullets. Dad never snaps. Not since the year of depression after what happened to Mom and Adam. He rarely loses his cool. So this is a red flag.
His gaze chills, but my insides start turning.
