The stark white card glares at me from the front of the arrangement. The fact that this gift is in my office instead of adding to the pile outside means I don’t have to check who sent it; I already know.
Still, like a masochist, I lightly pick up the expensive folded cardstock and unfold it to reveal a bold, blocky script I recognize. He actually wrote the message himself? Which means he must have delivered it himself. How strange, my thumb brushes over the textured paper.
Charlotte,
So good to have you back after your “sabbatical,” the company just wasn’t the same without you. I’m at your disposal for whatever you need. Your faithful brother -M
Resentment burns, topped with a healthy helping of revulsion. I crush the message into a tight ball—the edges of the card biting into my hand—but it does little to ease the sensation wrangling inside me like a small animal trying to escape. Damn. Damn. Damn. My hard-won composure begins to crack before I even sit down at my desk. I take a deep breath.
Matthew is not, nor will he ever be, my brother. It doesn’t matter what story the company paints to the media to excuse the decisions in Dad’s will. What does it matter to me that it’s easier for the public to think that Clark Simpson hand-picked a prodigy and welcomed him into his family as a son instead of being an old eccentric who liked to play with his toys and manipulate everyone around him?
Unfortunately, it does matter. It’s significant to stockholders; the stability of the company depends on the public remaining ignorant of just how off his rocker Dad was in the end. The cover story is as good as any. I’m only required to smile for the camera while next to him. It shouldn’t be a hard thing to do.
That Matthew is one of the few who know where I’ve been the last two months disturbs me. He probably knows more about it than I do. He’s the holder of all the best secrets. Sabbatical…the bastard.
Everyone knows I haven’t been on a sabbatical, no matter what the press releases the company put out said. I take unholy pleasure that my return to work has ruined whichever tabloid bet on a secret baby. Most sided with the rehab story because it’s the most plausible.
The wheels of industry always turn, so many professionals dabble in the endless energy source of drugs. The gossips lament and whisper that it’s just so sad when they become all chewed up in the end with addiction.
Delila’s voice breaks me from my thoughts. “Mr. Smith called to ask to meet with you once you were settled.” She harbors a soft spot for the man, no matter that she’s in her fifties; all the women who meet Matthew drool. For all of her good judgment, Delila liking Matthew rankles.
“I’ll bet he did,” I mutter while looking at the flowers. “Probably just wanting to welcome me back in a way that doesn’t cover my desk.”
Delila snickers and moves the flowers to a nearby side table, which they dwarf. I struggle to stretch my mouth into a fake smile; it’s hard to keep my feelings about Matthew to myself.
Everyone adores him, and I honestly can’t even blame them for falling for the lie. Matthew puts on the best show—the epitome of a young executive, smooth mannered, and quick-witted. I see him as a wolf in hiding, waiting to catch you unawares. But he’s a capable wolf. Matthew has a way of negotiating through blockades that makes the shareholders look like they want to kiss him as much as Delila does.
No, I can’t blame anyone because they don’t know the truth.
“Well, I shouldn’t keep the CEO waiting. I suppose a detour to the top floor won’t put back my workload any more than it already is.” I shoot a look of faux remorse at Delila. The thousands of unread emails in my inbox are only a fraction of those that passed Delila’s screening measures.
My assistant grins at me. “I’ve already pushed your appointments for the morning, so you’ll have time to review the buildup on your desk, and we can decide how to proceed once you get back.”
I smile for real. Trust Delila to have all my details in order.
The floor numbers creep by while the elevator ascends. Have the elevators in this building always been so slow, or am I just that nervous? Thankfully, the elevator is empty this time. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this: antsy, jumpy, sweating.
For months before the “sabbatical,” I had gone to the office as a walking shell; hollow and numb. Nothing had worked for the depression that plagued me on and off again since I was a teen. I had been the inspiration for Dad’s very first biomedical invention, and the company Exordium had been born from the success.
Now Exordium is an influential company, branching into all different kinds of medical devices and treatments: prosthetics, implants, surgery devices, etcetera. Clark Simpson had been the visionary who kept the company in the lead in innovation since its founding; now, they have Matthew.
I trace my index finger over the lump behind my ear almost meditative at the thought. The cranial implant that has helped millions who struggle with mental illness has never been effective for me. Now that the doctors have found the winning cocktail of medications that keep me functioning, I could get it transferred to the implant, but I won’t. It feels significant every time I choose to medicate; the routine is something I do for myself, my future, to stay healthy. It is a touchstone of my recovery.
Nerves make my fidgeting worse; I really don’t want to see Matthew, and the slow elevator just emphasizes that. Our past interactions haven’t been great and only degraded further after Dad’s death until we reached the point of not speaking; then, I rode my depression in a downward spiral until having a breakdown two months ago.
The memories of that time are a blur, but I think Matthew had visited while I was hospitalized—though, the idea that he had tortures me. It feels violating enough that he had been the one to make arrangements for my medical care.
“Why do you hate him so much?” The words had been from my main therapist Dr. Nguyen, a few weeks ago during one of our many sessions. “You’ve spoken of several incidents before your last downswing involving him. Yelling at him over your father’s grave, arranging for his dry cleaning to be given to charity, messing with his meeting schedules. What are you trying to provoke from Mr. Smith?”
My ears had burned; summed up like that, it all seemed so petulant. It had been petulant; little ways of striking out, trying to soothe the riotous anger that seemed to pop up from nowhere and devour holes in my restraint.
I had stared at the little Zen garden in Nguyen’s office instead of at the calm therapist who sat with her legs crossed as I tried to think of how to verbalize what was going on inside me. I couldn’t tell her the whole truth, but I could cover the basics. Even that had felt too revealing, like a barb being yanked out of my chest.
“My father loved him more than me. Isn’t that the case with most ‘sibling’ strife?” The words tasted bitter, but Nguyen’s face showed no inflection, so I continued. “My father and I used to work on projects together after my mother died, bonding time, I guess, but then I got…sick and no longer whole. The medications to deal with my depression made my moods erratic, and my father didn’t seem to want me around anymore. Hell, I didn’t even know if I wanted to be around anymore.”
I stopped for a breath because the memory of Dad’s closed study door still ached.