Christian

"This dipshit really thinks I won't do it." I grumbled to myself.

"Christian, I'm a good ninety percent sure he hasn't checked his emails. He logged his PTO as sick days, so let the poor guy recover." Brad snapped back. He hadn't even looked up from his laptop to do so.

"Brad this is crunch time, we don't even have a few weeks until this presentation needs to be ready. There are no time for sick days. That, and he's my personal assistant, what the hell is a sick day to him anyways? Those don't exist."

"You're acting psychotic again." My mother chimed in.

I glances up at the woman who was perfectly seated in the chair across from my desk. Regardless of the relaxed style of the furniture, my mother demonstrated nothing less than perfect posture. She sat upright at the end of the seat, with her tablet rested on her perfectly crossed legs, and a glass of wine in hand.

Glancing at her brought a few not-so-fond memories to light.

I remember my mother used to smack the shit out of Brad and I whenever we would slouch in our chairs. She always said that perfect posture gave off a different type of radiative energy. Something that represented power and importance.

As I looked back up at my mother, it was hard not to feel her power.

"What's with this boy, anyways? Brad was telling me you hired your IT guy as your assistant. That's an interesting move, Christian."

"Yes well, he's proved to be quite adaptive. We've made some great growth through the last couple days, and he's assisting me with the Mavericks deal." I explained.

"He's also fixing the computer that Christian smashed to smithereens." Brad added. My eyes snapped up to give him the most intense glare, but he still wasn't bothering to glance away from his computer screen.

"Christian!" My mother shot out in the most disapproving tone.

"It was an accident! The deal with Larington didn't go exactly as planned..." I continued with hesitation. My fingers gripped the edge of my desk tight as I braced myself for what was to come...

My mother's wrath.

"Kristian Ivanov, so help me god, what the fuck have you done now?"

I flinched as her Russian started to seep through. She was metaphorically morphing into her true form- the spawn of Satan himself.

"It isn't as bad as it sounds, mother, I promise. I lost my cool when I shouldn't have, but this Mavericks deal will make up the losses."

That perked Brad right the fuck on up. His eyes caught mine instantly as his eyebrows raised in surprise. He saw the stats. He knew I was lying straight through my fucking teeth with that one.

"Do not lie to me, ребенок. Your father may have given you control but he still looks through these books. Is this going to hurt the company? Or the family?" I was going to reply but she quickly added, "Tell me, Brad."

Both Brad and I sort of shared a look. Mother had this way of managing to belittle the two of us with every visit she made. Regardless of who was in the room, my mother was always the only relevant one.

"It-uh... it won't be something we can't rebuild from, but it's directly reliant on this Mavericks deal. If we lose that, I can't guarantee the rest of this year will be an easy one." Brad replied in his perfectly monotoned voice.

My mother's eyes narrowed at me.

"If you lose your shit again, so help me god, I'll take this all away. Everything, Christian. Show me you can run this fucking company... and not by means of running it into the ground. If Mavericks falls through, I'm having your father intervene."

Her voice gave no indication of a bluff.

And that brought on chills.

-

I glanced down at the send button on my email.

This had to of been my sixteenth one to Alex.

I was sure he was just taking some time away to rest, but my mother's words lit a fire under my ass. We didn't have the luxury of time to rest.

My father's involvement was something no one wanted, not even my mother. She knew that deep down inside. My father deciding to take a step back from the company, was the best thing to happen to our family. I didn't want to think about what would happen if he involved himself now. I'm sure my death would be up for discussion.

-

Brad had forwarded me the address for Alex's apartment a few moments after I had sent that email and left the office. I was surprised to see he was living in a lower scale building, when I pulled up to the GPS location. It wasn't terribly run down or anything, but I expected something more from someone with his salary.

Maybe he had college debt or something he was actively paying. No wonder he accepted that raise. It must not have really been an option for him, to begin with.

I entered the building with my laptop bag in one hand, and our portfolio of docs in the other. It was another interesting experience not to see someone seated at a front desk here... but I had to remind myself that this wasn't like the apartments I'd been to.

At least the elevators worked alright.

The address said his apartment number was 324, I assumed this placed him on the third floor. Everything was pretty simple in terms of the complex layout, and I managed to find his wing in no time. I was, however, slowed to a stop as I noticed a few other people starting to leave the apartment. I recognized them instantly as the two employees I had chatted with about Alex's disappearance. I think the woman's name was Janice?

Jamie?

Jane?

Something like that.

I heard Alex start to say something to them from the doorway, but they all stopped short as they noticed me approaching. The man who stood besides the woman (I couldn't even remember the first letter of his name) practically had his jaw hit the ground.

No one said a word for a very uncomfortable amount of time... so I took it upon myself to.

My eyes disregarded both of these two, to zero in on Alex himself.

"That's funny." I started. "Considering you haven't made it into work or been replying to my emails, I for sure thought the only logical explanation would be that you've broken every finger you have and had both legs amputated. But here you are. Limbs in tact and everything..."

Alex looked absolutely petrified.

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