Byano sat in the leather armchair of his Greenwich Village study, the room's oak-paneled walls absorbing the late afternoon light filtering through the tall windows. Outside, the city hummed with its relentless rhythm, but here, time felt suspended, heavy with the weight of his son's silence. Marcus stood across the room, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded hoodie, his gaze fixed on the hardwood floor. At twenty-two, Marcus carried a fragility that clawed at Byano's heart—his son's angular frame, once vibrant with boyish energy, now seemed to sag under an invisible burden. The antidepressants on the side table, their orange bottle a stark reminder of his struggles, glinted in the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp. Byano's fingers tightened around the armrest. He'd built an empire from nothing, turned dreams into billions, but saving his son from the shadows of his own mind felt like a battle he was losing.
"Marcus," Byano said, his voice low but firm, "talk to me. You've been dodging therapy again. Dr. Patel called me this morning." He leaned forward, searching his son's face for a flicker of the boy who'd once sketched fantastical cities in crayon, dreams of a world he could control.
Marcus's shoulders twitched, a half-shrug that seemed to cost him effort. "What's there to say, Dad? I'm trying. It's just… loud in here." He tapped his temple, his voice barely above a whisper. "All the time."
Byano's chest ached. He knew that noise—not the same as Marcus's, but a clamor of his own: the weight of Norwood Enterprises, Victoria's relentless divorce maneuvers, the sting of Charles's betrayal three months ago, when Byano had uncovered his mentor's leaks to Meridian Capital. He'd survived it all, but Marcus's pain was a wound no boardroom victory could heal. "I get it, son," Byano said, rising and crossing the room to stand beside him. "But you're not alone in this. You've got me, Elena, Sophia. We're here."
Marcus's eyes, red-rimmed and shadowed, flicked up briefly. "You're fighting a war, Dad. Mom's trying to gut you in court, the company's bleeding from the Shanghai deal. You don't need my mess on top of it."
Byano's jaw tightened. Victoria's latest stunt—leaking doctored emails to the press, painting him as a neglectful father—had hit hard, especially for Marcus, who'd read the headlines and retreated further into himself. "Your mother's words don't define you," Byano said, his tone steel. "Or me. You're my priority, Marcus. Always have been."
Marcus snorted, a bitter edge to it. "Yeah? Then why do I feel like the weak link? Elena's out there saving the planet with her fashion line, Sophia's art is in galleries, and I'm… what? The kid who can't get out of bed without pills?"
Byano's hand hovered, wanting to grip his son's shoulder but hesitating, knowing Marcus often flinched from touch. Instead, he gestured to a sketchpad on the nearby desk, its pages spilling with raw, jagged drawings of cityscapes and abstract figures, each line pulsing with unspoken pain. "This," Byano said, picking it up. "This is you. I saw it last month, and I see it now. You've got something, Marcus. Something real."
Marcus's gaze darted to the sketchpad, then away, his cheeks flushing. "It's just doodles. Nobody cares."
"Wrong," Byano said, his voice softening but resolute. "I care. Sophia cares—she saw these and said they reminded her of Basquiat, raw and honest. And I'm betting others would too." He set the sketchpad down, an idea sparking. "What if we got you a space? Somewhere to work, show your stuff. Not pressure, just… a place to breathe."
Marcus's eyes widened, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—breaking through the fog. "You mean, like a studio?"
"Exactly." Byano's mind raced, picturing a loft in Brooklyn, near Sophia's art scene, where Marcus could find his footing. "We could fund it through the foundation, keep it low-key. You call the shots."
For a moment, Marcus was silent, his fingers tracing the edge of the sketchpad. Then he shook his head, the shadow creeping back. "What's the point? I'd just screw it up, like everything else."
Byano knelt to meet his son's eyes, something he hadn't done since Marcus was a boy. "Listen to me, Marcus. You're not a screw-up. You're fighting a battle most people can't even see. Every day you get up, you draw, you talk to me—that's winning. And I'm not letting you do it alone."
Marcus's lip trembled, and for the first time in months, he didn't pull away when Byano placed a hand on his arm. "Okay," he whispered. "I'll… try."
Later that evening, Byano drove to Elena's SoHo office, the city's lights blurring past his Bentley's tinted windows. The meeting with Marcus had left him raw but hopeful, a fragile victory in a war that felt endless. Elena's sustainable fashion startup, Verdant Threads, was a beacon of her drive, but Byano knew she was stretched thin, juggling her business and the family's turmoil. He needed her perspective, her strength, to keep Marcus steady.
Elena's office was a sleek, open space, walls lined with fabric swatches and mood boards. She sat at a glass desk, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, her eyes tired but sharp as she reviewed contracts. At twenty-eight, Elena had her father's focus and her mother's poise, but none of Victoria's venom. When Byano entered, she stood, crossing the room to hug him. "Dad, you look wrecked. Marcus?"
"He's struggling, but we talked. I think he's open to a studio, something to focus on." Byano sank into a chair, rubbing his temples. "I just wish I could fix it faster."
Elena leaned against the desk, her expression softening. "You're doing more than you think. He's still here because of you. And Sophia—she's planning to drag him to her next gallery show, get him inspired."
Byano managed a faint smile. Sophia, his fiery artist daughter, had a knack for pulling Marcus out of his shell. "You two are my anchors, you know that? But I need to ask—how's Verdant holding up? I heard Meridian's circling your investors."
Elena's jaw tightened, a mirror of his own. "They are. Someone's feeding them my expansion plans. I thought it was just corporate espionage, but after Charles…" She trailed off, the sting of their former advisor's betrayal still fresh.
Byano's fists clenched. Charles's leaks had cost him millions, but the personal wound cut deeper. "I'm handling it. New security protocols, and I've got Tessa tracing the source. But if Meridian's targeting you too, it's personal. Victor Crane's always had a grudge."
Elena nodded, her eyes narrowing. "I can handle Crane. But Dad, focus on Marcus. And the divorce. Mom's latest stunt—those emails—she's trying to break us all."
Byano's phone buzzed, a message from his lawyer: Victoria's team is pushing for a deposition. They're claiming emotional abuse. Prep for tomorrow. His stomach churned. Victoria's lies were a calculated escalation, each one designed to bleed him dry and alienate his children. But Elena's hand on his shoulder grounded him.
"We're with you, Dad," she said. "All of us. Even Marcus, in his way."
That night, Byano returned to Marcus's apartment, unable to shake the need to check on him. The door was locked this time, a small relief. Inside, Marcus sat cross-legged on the floor, a new sketchpad open, his pencil moving in swift, deliberate strokes. The drawing was different—less jagged, a cityscape with light breaking through the skyline, like hope piercing despair.
"Hey," Marcus said, glancing up. "Thought you'd be at the office."
Byano smiled, the first real one in days. "Had to see my artist at work." He sat beside him, watching the pencil dance. "This one's different. Lighter."
Marcus paused, his eyes distant but clearer. "Yeah. I was thinking… maybe a studio wouldn't be so bad. If Sophia helps pick the spot."
Byano's heart swelled. It wasn't a cure, not a miracle, but it was a step. A turning point. "She'd love that. And I'm funding it, no strings. You create, Marcus. That's enough."
As Marcus nodded, a faint smile breaking through, Byano felt the weight of his empire shift. Victoria's schemes, Meridian's threats—they'd face them together, as a family. The Byano Legacy wasn't just wealth or power; it was this moment, this fragile spark of hope in his son's eyes. And Byano would fight to keep it burning.