Chapter 7 : Father Son's Chemistry
The door to Micheal's suite closed with a muted click behind him. The hallway outside went silent, leaving only the soft hum of the chandelier above. He glanced at the clock mounted on the cream-paneled wall — still early evening.
From the side door near the wardrobe, a maid emerged, her head bowed in the precise, practiced way of the Visalla household staff.
"Your bath is ready, sir," she said, voice measured and smooth, like she'd rehearsed it.
Micheal gave her a faint nod. "Alright."
She stepped aside with a quiet shuffle of slippers, vanishing the way she'd come, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender soap she must have been carrying on her hands.
He walked toward the partition that separated his sleeping area from the dressing space. The carpet beneath his shoes had that deep, almost soundless give of something woven thick and expensive. A glance toward the bathroom door revealed thin trails of steam curling from the narrow gap — a visual promise of warmth after a day that had felt far too long.
Micheal loosened the knot of his tie. It slid free in one motion, folding over his palm as if it knew the path. His jacket came next, shoulders rolling as he slipped out of it, hanging it neatly on a walnut stand beside the wardrobe. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, each metallic click faint in the quiet room, the thin cotton parting to reveal the faint chill of the air-conditioned suite against his skin.
He moved without hurry, pulling the shirt free and draping it over the stand. Belt buckle clicked open next — leather slipping through loops with that dry, familiar hiss. Trousers folded precisely, placed alongside the shirt. By the time he stepped toward the bathroom in only his undershirt and briefs, the steam's heat had already reached him, carrying the subtle sweetness of rosewater.
The bathroom was black marble and gold trim, the Visallas' taste for opulence turned up without apology. The tub dominated the center, raised slightly on a platform, its glossy black sides rimmed with a band of muted gold. Hot water steamed lazily inside, tinted faintly pink by scattered rose petals drifting over the surface. Their scent clung to the air, rich but not cloying. Somewhere in the background, an old record player — one of his father's eccentric touches — murmured a low, slow melody, strings and piano weaving together in something decades old.
Micheal stepped in, the heat climbing up his calves first, then thighs, until his body eased under the water with a faint ripple. He let his head fall back against the sloped edge, eyes closing, breath slowing.
A long moment passed with nothing but the muted song and the occasional faint pop of petals shifting against the water's surface. His muscles unwound, the day's static beginning to drain out of him. His mind skimmed over fragments — Ashley in the lobby, her voice just a little too quick when she'd mentioned the five million loss; the way the butler had phrased it as important that he attend dinner. He didn't linger on any of it. Not yet.
When the record faded into silence, replaced by the light hiss of the needle against vinyl, Micheal exhaled slowly and rose from the water. Steam curled up his chest and arms as he stepped onto the thick towel laid out for him, wrapping another around his waist.
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By the time he left his room, the halls were quieter than usual. The estate's evening rhythm had begun — staff moving in measured patterns, voices low. A faint clinking echoed from the dining area ahead, the scent of roasted meat and something buttery drifting into the corridor.
He passed two maids carrying silver trays, the polished domes catching glints of chandelier light. Their eyes lowered as he walked by, their steps quickening toward the long table at the center of the dining hall.
The table was already half set — a spread of porcelain plates with gold rims, crystal glasses catching the warm glow of overhead fixtures. Bowls of fresh greens, bread rolls resting in linen-lined baskets, a decanter of deep red wine breathing beside the head chair. Closer inspection revealed the main courses — a whole roasted duck, its skin lacquered to a rich bronze; a platter of lamb chops drizzled with rosemary jus; delicate sides like truffle mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus, each arranged with the kind of symmetry that came from trained hands.
Micheal entered in light clothing — a cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs, paired with dark slacks. Comfortable but not careless. He took a seat at the right side of the table, fingers resting lightly against the rim of his glass without lifting it.
Footsteps approached from the far entrance. His father appeared, tall, his presence filling the room in that way it always had. He wore a dark navy dinner jacket over a crisp white shirt, no tie, the top button left open — a subtle concession to comfort, though nothing about him ever felt casual.
Micheal stood as he entered. "Father."
The older man gave a small nod, one corner of his mouth tugging faintly upward in acknowledgment. "Micheal."
They both sat, the butler appearing almost immediately with the wine. He poured with slow precision, the dark liquid sliding in smooth arcs into each crystal glass before stepping back with a bow.
"You should start," his father said, gesturing faintly toward the food.
They began to eat, the first few minutes passing in relative quiet. The only sounds were the soft scrape of cutlery, the faint pop from the fireplace across the room, and the occasional muted steps of staff clearing or replacing dishes at the far end.
His father spoke first. "And how is school life going?"
Micheal glanced up briefly. "I'm doing fine."
"Good. Make sure to be top of your class."
"I will."
There was a short pause, filled only by the careful slicing of duck on his father's plate. Then: "I heard about the loss today. Five million, wasn't it?"
Micheal kept his tone even. "I just got to know, yes." He set down his fork. "Well, it's none of my concern now."
A faint hum from his father. "I expected you to have a bigger reaction. It was your first business."
"It's not mine anymore," Micheal said, lifting his glass. "I have other concerns now."
Another pause. This time his father took a slow sip of wine, watching Micheal over the rim of the glass. "The board meeting is in two weeks. We have four votes so far — even split."
"Four?" Micheal leaned back slightly. "Then it will come down to the head of the family to break the tie."
"Indeed."
"What's your read on that?"
"I'm not sure yet," his father said, glancing briefly toward the window as if considering something.
They ate in silence for a while. A fresh course was set before them — thinly sliced lamb with a drizzle of sauce so dark it nearly matched the plate's black surface. The scent of rosemary filled the air between them.
His father broke the quiet again. "And the island?"
"In progress. I've met with the seller. We should be able to buy it soon."
"The payment?"
"In installments. We can fund it from the profits of the recent apartment business without strain."
His father's knife slowed against the plate. "And the later cost of construction? Our business won't be able to afford it."
"I know," Micheal said. "I've found a way."
"A way?"
"Ashley wants the drug business. She needs my help. In return, she'll fund our project."
His father's hand froze mid-motion. He set the knife down slowly, the faint metallic click louder than it should have been. His eyes fixed on Micheal. "What, are you an idiot? Do you have any idea about the family rules? If we try to have influence in any other Visalla's business, we'd be cut out from the succession line."
Micheal's tone didn't shift. "I know. I have a solution."
"What solution?"
"That rule only applies if we force Nero out ourselves. If the head of the family removes him directly, we're not breaking anything."
His father leaned back slightly, one brow raising. "And how would that be possible?"
"When I get on the board," Micheal said, "I'll bring up today's incident. After that, it's just a matter of pressure."
"And my youngest brother?"
"You can handle that."
A slow laugh broke from his father, genuine and low. "Micheal… that day I made the right choice. I only wish your mother were alive to see you now."
They resumed eating, the earlier tension fading into a quieter rhythm. The wine was poured again. The conversation drifted to small remarks about estate matters, the quality of this year's harvest from their vineyard, the renovations planned for the western wing. But under it all, the board meeting's shadow lingered — unspoken, but there.
By the time the last plates were cleared, the room was warmer, quieter. His father rose first, offering only a small nod before leaving through the far door.
Micheal sat a moment longer, fingers circling the base of his glass, before finally standing. The butler appeared silently to take the untouched wine bottle from the table.
The corridors back to his suite felt longer than before, the light dimmer. Somewhere distant, a clock chimed the hour. Micheal's steps were unhurried, but his mind had already moved three steps ahead — to the boardroom, to the island, to Ashley's proposition, and the shifting pieces on a board no one could afford to misread.
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