Chapter 5 - The Unexpected Consultation
Patrick was seated in one of the glass-walled conference rooms on the 14th floor, reviewing a complicated corporate merger file with a senior tax partner named Sarah Jenkins, when his mobile phone—face down on the polished walnut conference table—vibrated softly.
He didn't look at it. He was deep into an analysis of deferred tax liabilities, his highlighter poised over a column of figures.
"So, if we structure the asset transfer under Section 338(h)(10)," Sarah was saying, tapping her pen against her tablet, "we can mitigate the capital gains exposure by roughly fifteen percent. Do you follow, Patrick?"
"Yes, Sarah," Patrick replied smoothly, looking up from his notes. "And if we offset that against the subsidiary's operating losses from the previous fiscal year, we can drop the net taxable income even further before the quarterly filing deadline."
Sarah smiled, leaning back in her leather chair with a nod of approval. "Brilliant. Arthur was right about you. You’ve got an instinct for this that can't be taught in textbooks."
Just then, Patrick’s phone vibrated a second time.
The screen lit up, illuminating the dark wood table. Incoming Call: Mom.
Patrick froze. The smooth, rhythmic flow of his thoughts hitched. For a fraction of a second, the sterile, high-tech conference room faded away, replaced by the suffocating scent of buttercream frosting and the memory of his father’s voice echoing in the hallway: "You’re not welcome back until you learn respect."
Sarah noticed his momentary distraction and glanced down at the glowing screen. She saw the caller ID, then looked back at Patrick’s face, reading the sudden tension in his squared jaw and rigid posture.
"Do you need to take that, Patrick?" Sarah asked gently. "We can pause for ten minutes."
Patrick stared at the screen. The phone stopped vibrating, went silent for three seconds, and then began to vibrate again as the second call came through immediately.
"No," Patrick said, his voice steady, cold, and entirely devoid of hesitation. He reached out, picked up the phone, and flipped it face down on the table, cutting off the vibration entirely. "It’s a personal call. It can wait."
Sarah studied him for a moment, her eyes filled with quiet empathy. "Alright. Let’s get back to Section 338."
For the next two hours, Patrick buried himself in the work. He dissected tax codes, verified depreciation schedules, and drafted corporate restructuring memos with a laser-like focus that left no room for ghosts from his past. When the meeting adjourned at 4:30 PM, he walked back to his cubicle to find three missed calls from his mother, two missed calls from his father, and a text message notification.
He picked up his phone, unlocked it, and tapped on the text message from his mother:
"Patrick, please pick up. This is an emergency. Your father and I are in serious trouble with the bank, and we don't know who else to turn to. Family is family. Please call us."
Patrick stared at the words on the screen. There was no apology. No acknowledgment of his graduation. No recognition of the months of emotional neglect, the financial abandonment, or the bitter parting words his father had hurled at him as he walked out the door. Just an emergency demand for assistance, framed in the convenient blanket of "family loyalty."
He locked his phone, tossed it into his leather briefcase, and began organizing his desk for the evening.
At 5:00 PM, he walked down to the lobby and stepped out onto State Street. The evening air was warm and crisp, carrying the lively chatter of downtown Albany workers heading to happy hour. As he walked toward his apartment, his phone buzzed in his pocket one last time.
May you like
He ignored it.
Little did he know, his parents hadn't given up. Desperate and out of options, Robert O’Neill had decided to take matters into his own hands—a decision that would bring the two worlds crashing together in the most public, humiliating way possible.
