The city belonged to him again.
Sunlight flooded the top floor as Ethan Blackwood strode through his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled, confidence settling back into place like a well-worn habit. Screens lit up with numbers he understood. Meetings waited for him. Control returned.
This—this was familiar.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwood," his assistant said, keeping pace beside him.
"Schedule?" Ethan asked, already scanning the tablet.
"Board call at ten. Lunch with Sterling Group. Press interview pushed to tomorrow."
Ethan smiled. "Perfect."
He dropped into his chair, fingers flying across the keyboard, mind sharp, focused. Deals moved. Decisions landed. Laughter followed at the right moments. The room responded to him the way it always had efficient, obedient, impressed.
By noon, he was winning.
He leaned back, hands behind his head, satisfied. Whatever chaos had tried to touch his life this morning had failed. He had said his piece. Given options. Done his part.
Work didn't ask for responsibility.
Power didn't ask for emotion.
Ethan glanced at his phone once.
No new messages.
Good.
He turned back to the screen, the faintest smirk returning to his lips. The day moved on, smooth and uninterrupted exactly the way he liked it.
Night erased the boardroom.
Music thumped through the college club, louder and messier than the executive lounges he usually owned. Laughter spilled everywhere
. Cheap drinks. Carefree faces. A younger crowd that didn't know his headlines only his charm.
Ethan fit in effortlessly.
Leather jacket back on. Glass in hand. Smile easy and dangerous.
"Didn't expect to see you here," a guy shouted over the music.
Ethan shrugged. "Didn't expect to be bored tonight."
A group gathered around him quickly. Stories turned into laughs. Laughs turned into attention. Someone pulled him toward the dance floor, and he let it happen—why not?
This was simple.
No questions.
No responsibility.
No future.
A girl leaned close, shouting something playful into his ear. He laughed, spun her lightly, felt the familiar rush return the one that drowned out quieter thoughts.
For a moment, everything worked again.
He raised his glass, cheers erupted, and the night swallowed him whole.
If this was escape, he took it gladly.
If this was denial, it felt a lot like freedom.
Ethan Blackwood danced under flashing lights, completely alive
and completely convinced that daylight problems did not belong in the dark.
For now.
The bass dropped harder as the crowd tightened around Ethan. Someone laughed at something he didn't catch. Another drink appeared in his hand. Easy. Effortless.
Then Marcus leaned in.
Close. Too close.
Ethan frowned. "If you spill this drink on my jacket, you're dead."
Marcus didn't smile.
"Your grandpa is coming tonight."
The music kept pounding.
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"Tonight," Marcus repeated, louder this time. "As in—right now."
Ethan laughed. A real one. "You're joking."
Marcus didn't laugh back. "I never joke about men who taught you how to scare rooms into silence."
Ethan's smile stalled.
"My grandfather hates clubs," he said. "He hates noise. He hates crowds. He hates—"
"He hates you being here," Marcus finished. "Which is why he's on his way."
Ethan looked around—at the lights, the drinks, the girls, the chaos—and groaned. "Of all nights."
Marcus smirked. "The universe has timing."
"I am twenty minutes into having fun," Ethan said. "This is harassment."
"You're wearing a leather jacket at a college club," Marcus replied. "Your grandfather will call it a midlife crisis."
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "Why didn't you stop him?"
Marcus shrugged. "I tried. He said, and I quote, 'If the boy can dance, he can explain.'"
Ethan stared at him. "He said that?"
"He growled it," Marcus corrected.
Ethan sighed, drained his drink, and handed the glass away. "How long do we have?"
"Five minutes."
Ethan straightened, rolling his shoulders, the playboy grin snapping back into place. "Fine."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"
"I'll meet him," Ethan said. "Let him lecture. Then I'll come back."
Marcus laughed. "You're brave."
"No," Ethan replied calmly. "I'm delusional."
The lights flashed again. The music surged.
Somewhere between the beat and the warning, Ethan Blackwood realized the night was about to stop being simple.
And his grandfather never arrived without changing something.
"Keys," he snapped.
Marcus barely had time to react before Ethan was already pushing through the crowd, leather jacket half on, phone in one hand, adrenaline replacing alcohol.
"You're running?" Marcus shouted after him. "From a party?"
"I don't run from parties," Ethan shot back. "I run from family."
The night air hit him hard as he stepped outside. Cool. Sharp. Sober. He slid into his car, engine roaring to life as if it understood the emergency.
His grandfather didn't announce visits.
He arrived.
Which meant judgment. Questions. Silence heavier than shouting.
Ethan drove fast but not reckless. Old habits. Control, even in panic.
At every red light, his jaw tightened.
Of all nights, he thought. Of all possible timings.
By the time he reached his house, the lights were already on.
That was never a good sign.
He parked, grabbed his jacket properly this time, and took a breath before stepping inside. The house felt different quieter, heavier, like it was holding its breath.
Then he heard it.
The unmistakable sound of a cane tapping against marble.
Ethan closed his eyes for half a second.
"Well," he muttered, straightening his jacket, playboy confidence sliding back into place like armor, "fun's officially over."
He walked in.
The living room was silent.
Too silent.
Ethan stepped inside and immediately saw him
his grandfather seated in the armchair, cane resting against his knee, posture rigid, eyes sharp enough to cut through glass.
Angry didn't even begin to cover it.
"Good evening," Ethan said casually. "You're early."
His grandfather didn't respond.
He simply stared.
That stare had ended wars in boardrooms and silenced rooms full of men twice Ethan's age.
Ethan cleared his throat. "I was in a meeting."
The cane hit the marble floor with a sharp tap.
"A meeting," his grandfather repeated slowly. "At a college club."
Ethan froze for half a second then recovered smoothly. "Networking," he said. "Very informal."
His grandfather let out a cold laugh. "Leather jacket. Loud music. Girls barely old enough to know your name."
Another tap of the cane.
"Tell me, Ethan," the old man continued, "is that how you conduct business now?"
Ethan shrugged. "Times change."
"Yes," his grandfather snapped. "And clearly, so does dignity."
Ethan straightened. "I'm handling everything just fine."
"Fine?" his grandfather echoed. "You spend your days pretending to run an empire and your nights running away from responsibility."
"That's not fair," Ethan said lightly.
His grandfather leaned forward. "Fair is earned."
Silence stretched.
"I didn't raise you to live like this," the old man said. "Chasing pleasure like it's a substitute for purpose."
Ethan crossed his arms, the familiar playboy confidence settling in. "I'm not hurting anyone."
His grandfather's eyes darkened. "Men like you always say that until consequences start calling."
Ethan scoffed. "You worry too much."
The old man stood slowly, cane in hand. "And you think too little."
He moved closer, voice low but cutting. "Your grandfather built this family with discipline. Your father protected it with sacrifice. And you"
He gestured at Ethan from head to toe.
"—are busy enjoying freedom you didn't earn."
Ethan's jaw tightened, but he forced a smile. "Relax. I've got everything under control."
His grandfather stared at him for a long moment, then said quietly:
"Control is what men claim right before they lose it."
He turned away, cane tapping as he walked toward the hallway.
"Sleep early," he added without looking back. "Tomorrow, we talk about the future you keep avoiding."
The sound of the footsteps faded.
Ethan stood alone in the living room, smile gone, chest tight.
He exhaled slowly.
"Great," he muttered. "Everyone's suddenly concerned about my life choices."
He loosened his collar and glanced toward the stairs.
What he didn't know yet
was that the future his grandfather wanted to discuss
was already growing somewhere he couldn't run from.
Morning arrived slowly.
Too slowly.
Ethan woke to muted sunlight creeping through the curtains, his head heavy, his thoughts inconveniently quiet. No alarms. No rush. Just the soft ticking of time reminding him he'd slept past discipline.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and let out a breath.
Late.
Again.
Downstairs, the house was still. His grandfather was gone early, as always. The absence felt deliberate, like silence left behind on purpose.
Ethan poured himself a cup of tea instead of coffee. He didn't know why. Maybe he needed something calmer. Something that didn't demand sharpness.
He stood by the window, cup warm in his hands, watching the city move on without him.
Cars. People. Purpose.
For a moment, he thought of work. For a moment, he didn't.
At exactly 1:00 p.m., he finally picked up his keys.
Jacket on. Expression neutral. The familiar mask sliding back into place.
By the time he left the house, the morning was already gone
and with it, another chance to think too deeply about the things he'd been avoiding.
The office would still be there.
And for now, that was enough.
Ethan walked into his office like a man who owned time itself.
Late arrival. Relaxed stride. Jacket tossed over one shoulder. He was halfway through loosening his tie when he started talking without even looking up.
"You will not believe the traffic," he said casually. "It's like the city personally decided to—"
Marcus cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Ethan frowned. "If you're about to complain about my timing, save it. I'm the CEO."
Marcus didn't answer.
Ethan finally looked up.
And froze.
Someone was sitting in his chair.
His chair.
Back straight. Hands resting calmly on the armrests. Expression carved out of pure disappointment.
His grandfather.
Ethan blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he smiled. "Oh. You're… here."
The old man didn't move.
"Good afternoon, Ethan," his grandfather said coolly. "Or should I say good morning? Since you seem to be starting your day now."
Marcus tried very hard not to laugh.
Failed.
Ethan shot him a warning look. "Why are you sitting there?"
"Because it was empty," his grandfather replied. "Much like your sense of responsibility."
Marcus snorted.
The cane tapped against the floor.
"And you," the old man continued, turning his sharp gaze toward Marcus, "are you his assistant or his partner in bad habits?"
Marcus straightened immediately. "Security."
"Ah," the grandfather said. "Then you're very bad at it."
Marcus winced. "Sir—"
"You let him arrive at work after lunch," the old man snapped. "What do you do all day? Hold his jacket?"
Ethan stepped forward. "Alright, that's enough. I was handling some personal matters."
"Yes," his grandfather said dryly. "I heard. Very personal. Very loud. Very late."
Ethan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Marcus raised his hands. "For the record, I tried to stop him."
His grandfather turned slowly. "From going to the club?"
Marcus hesitated. "…No."
The cane tapped again.
"Sit," the old man ordered Ethan.
Ethan didn't argue.
That alone should have worried everyone.
"You think being CEO means freedom," his grandfather said. "It doesn't. It means accountability."
Ethan leaned back. "I've doubled profits this quarter."
"And halved discipline," the old man shot back. "A fair trade?"
Marcus muttered, "I'm just here for emotional support."
Both of them glared at him.
The grandfather stood, towering despite his age. "If you want to behave like a boy, Ethan, don't sit in a man's chair."
He pointed at Marcus. "And you—if you're going to protect him, protect him from himself first."
Marcus nodded obediently. "Lesson learned."
The old man picked up his cane and walked toward the door, then paused.
"Oh," he added calmly, "try coming to work before the sun sets tomorrow."
The door closed behind him.
Silence.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Marcus looked at him. "So… rough meeting?"
Ethan dropped his head back against the chair. "I'm surrounded by enemies."
Marcus grinned. "Correction. You're surrounded by people who know exactly what you're doing."
Ethan groaned. "I hate mornings."
Marcus laughed. "You hate consequences."
Ethan stared at the ceiling.
Somehow, the office had never felt smaller.