Eric's POV
The first ring didn't even have time to breathe before I picked up.
"Eric."
That voice, clipped, even, so tightly composed it might've been machine-polished. My father didn't waste time with greetings or small talk.
Whenever he entered or barged into a room, he just went straight to business, as in this situation. Even over the phone, he barges in.
I leaned back against the marble island in my kitchen, bare-chested, my post-workout sweat just starting to dry. "Dad. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I said it with a slight smile, but not the kind he'd hear. Just the kind that curved behind my voice.
"Don't get cheeky. Your name is splattered across every newsfeed I open. Influencer girl. Defamation lawsuit. What the hell is this?"
Ah. There it is. The reason for the call.
I twisted the cap off my protein shake and took a slow sip. "Her name's Nala Murphey. You've probably seen the clips by now. She's been spinning lies with a ring light and a smug little smile for months. I'm simply correcting the narrative."
"By dragging her to court?" he said, flatly. "You look like a bitter boy with too much money and a bruised ego. This is messy, Eric."
"And letting her spit on my name isn't?" I replied, more defensive than I intended. "She called me manipulative. A fraud. She's weaponizing her platform for clicks. I'm not just doing this out of pride. It's strategic. I'm cutting the oxygen supply to her story."
"Your name shouldn't be in the same sentence as hers." His voice had dropped to that slower, heavier tone. The one he used in board meetings when someone disappointed him. "You're the CEO of Ross Inc. Or at least, you're supposed to be. Right now, you look like someone who took a vacation from accountability."
That stung a little. Not because it was cruel. But because I could hear the truth lodged inside it like a splinter.
"I haven't forgotten the company," I said. "This story, whether you like it or not has traction. It affects public perception. My presence in the media, even now, still carries value."
"Not this kind of value." His words landed like cold coins on concrete. "You've had enough time playing around with reality shows and influencers. That girl's not worth this much energy."
"Easy for you to say when it's not your face being dragged every morning," I muttered. Then, correcting myself, "I've got it under control. Trust me."
"You have one week," he snapped. "One. If your name isn't out of those headlines by then, I'm stepping in. I'll clean this myself, and you won't like how I do it."
I stared out at the window, still holding the half-empty bottle in my hand. My fingers tightened around the plastic.
"You're not serious."
"I'm always serious when it comes to legacy. Yours, mine, and what you're doing to it. You think this is about some petty online drama?" he continued. "It's about discipline. You don't have the luxury of distractions. You want to act like a boy with no responsibilities? Fine. I'd rather bring in an outsider who's true to the company than someone who can't properly wear the Ross name without embarrassing it."
That hit me harder than I expected. Not because it was new. He's always been this way- direct, sharp, bone-deep focused on the brand more than the man.
Still. I swallowed the pride burning at the back of my throat and forced calm into my voice.
"Understood."
There was a pause.
Then:
"I know what it's like to grieve through distraction," he said. "It's not healthy, Eric, don't make it a habit."
Beep. The phone line drops dead.
No goodbyes. No closing remark. That was his version of softness. And for a moment, I just stood there, still holding the damn protein shake bottle, staring at the spot on the floor where his voice had lingered.
Grieve through distraction.
Funny. I hadn't thought about her in weeks. I didn't let myself.
But suddenly, Stacy Ross was everywhere. I began to remember my mom's laugh. Her scent. The way she used to hum in the mornings while brushing my hair. I was eight when she died, and yet somehow, I remember the weight of her hands when she tucked me in better than I remember the last conversation I had with my father.
She was soft. Always soft. Even when she was sick, she smiled at me like she was trying to protect me from the truth curling behind her eyes. Her hands got thinner. Her voice, smaller. And still she kept asking me about my paintings, my silly made-up games, my dreams.
Then she was gone.
And Oliver… well, he didn't cry. Didn't say much of anything. I remember watching him at her funeral, thinking how still he was. Not broken. Not bent. Just… still. Like the grief froze him in place and never thawed.
After that, he buried himself in work. Flew from one boardroom to another like the sky owed him something. He didn't stop being my father. But he stopped being there. We still had dinners. School drop-offs. Birthday gifts. But the warmth? The laughter?
Gone with her.
I don't resent him for it. I never did. I think he just didn't know how to grieve out loud. So I learned to grieve alone. Entertain myself. Build armor out of charm and mischief and clean-cut suits. I filled in the blanks.
My phone buzzed on the counter. New notification:
"ERIC ROSS SLAPS INFLUENCER WITH LAWSUIT – PETTY OR POWER PLAY?"
I shook my head and tapped a voice memo to Leah.
"We need to end this and fast. Come up with something that still keeps me in control of the outcome of this case, but I want it closed asap. Give me the briefings first thing tomorrow at the office. Also…send someone to track her movement. Nala, or whatever her name is, to make sure she's not up to any stupid games. Let's clip her while we can."
I sent the recording. Exhaled.
Seven days. That's what he gave me. A week to clean up the mess. A week to prove I'm still in control.
Fine.
Let's clean it up, then.