Callum expected missed calls from his father when the officers finally produced his phone from storage and handed it back to him.
What he hadn't expected was thirty-two of them.
And beneath them, a single text.
'Call me.'
Callum exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his phone.
His ribs ached from Damian's uppercut, his knuckles throbbed where they'd connected with bone, but none of it compared to the weight settling in his stomach.
He stepped away from the officers and their chatter, finding a quiet corner of the station. The cold air from the vents did nothing to ease the sweat gathering at the back of his neck.
He pressed the call button.
His father answered on the first ring.
"A bar fight?" Howard Pierce's voice was sharp, slicing through the receiver like a blade. "Really? A bar fight, like some sort of hooligan? Against our prospective partner, no less?"
Callum exhaled through his nose. "Technically, it was a club fight—"
"Enough."
The word cracked like a gavel, final and absolute.
Callum shut his mouth.
"Do you have any idea," Howard continued, voice cold as ever, "the shame you have brought upon this family? Upon the company? I tried to contain the media spread, but it's hard to quarantine viral videos."
Callum ran a hand down his face. Of course the video had gone viral. A packed club, flashing cameras, drunk spectators with their phones out like they were filming a pay-per-view event. He might as well have lit himself on fire in the middle of Times Square.
He should have just sent an assassin.
Public fights weren't for distinguished rich people with important surnames.
"Well, I didn't exactly plan for it to go viral."
His fathers voice was even colder than usual, a feat Callum would've thought was impressive if all that iciness wasn't directed at him, "Silence, boy."
Callum flinched, gripping the phone tighter.
"As a Pierce, are you not aware that we are being monitored always?"
Of course he was aware.
He had been aware since childhood.
Even as a kid, he had known what was expected of him. Every gala, every charity event, every performance in front of the cameras. He still remembered how his mother would pinch his cheeks before they left the house so that they looked rosier on camera than they actually were, how the camera flashes burned into his retinas, how he was expected to smile and wave and be a good Pierce. He carried his family name on his shoulders long before he was strong enough to bear the burden.
And now, even as an adult, he constantly buckled beneath the weight.
Howard's voice broke through his thoughts.
"Your mother is disappointed."
A sharp, humorless laugh almost escaped him.
When is she not?
Callum swallowed the words. Instead, he asked, "And you? Are you disappointed in me, Father?"
Howard didn't answer immediately. Then—
"I put you in charge of Catalyst Games as a compromise."
Callum closed his eyes. He knew where this was going.
"You wanted to make your silly games? Fine. I said, go. Make your silly games and be the best at it. But even at that, you have failed."
The words didn't cut—they gutted.
Callum had always known he didn't measure up. He wasn't blind to the fact that, no matter how much success Catalyst Games found, it would never be enough. Not for his father. Not for the Pierce legacy.
But hearing it like this—cold, dismissive, absolute—it still fucking hurt.
It always fucking hurt.
His father's words dug into his ribs, slotting themselves neatly alongside a thousand other disappointments.
And then, before he could stop himself, he thought of Micah.
Of that morning in his office; Micah rubbing his palm after his own father had ripped into him. Of Micah showing him his scars. Of Micah hugging him back, so tightly, like he wanted to take some of the pain away.
But Micah was gone. Off with his blond-haired boyfriend while Callum stood here, drowning in the mess he had made.
Howard's voice remained calm, business-like, like he was merely stating a financial report. "I cannot be disappointed in you, boy, because I have never expected anything from you. I cannot expect anything from someone so content with mediocrity."
Callum inhaled sharply, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
There was nothing to say to that.
Nothing at all.
He knew better than to argue. He had learned a long time ago that no matter what he did—how hard he worked, how much he built—he would always be less in his father's eyes.
Not enough. Not a failure. Just an afterthought. Ever and always.
Howard continued, undeterred. "I will no longer allow you to drag this company's reputation through the mud. We will proceed with the sale, and I will not have my son as a liability at the helm when we negotiate a deal."
Callum's voice came out quieter than he intended. "Are you firing me?"
Howard scoffed. "Thank your lucky stars I don't have that kind of power, boy. The board will decide."
And then the line went dead.
Callum lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen for a long moment before stuffing it back into his pocket.
Given his track record, he already knew what the board would decide.
And it wasn't looking good for him.
---
The first thing Callum saw when he stepped outside was the press.
Dozens of them, swarming like hungry vultures, cameras flashing, voices shouting over one another.
"Mr. Pierce! Is it true you were arrested for assault?"
"Catalyst Games stock has dropped— the second time this is happening since the Level Up explosion—will you be stepping down?"
"Rumor has it the fight was between the boyfriend of the intern injured at the catastrophic Level Up explosion? Is this true? What is your relationship with the two men?"
That last question sent a shockwave through him—sharp and direct, slicing straight through the headache pressing behind his eyes.
Micah's name.
Their names, tangled together in a media storm Callum wasn't ready to face.
'What have I done?'
He barely had time to register his thoughts before a microphone was shoved too close to his face, a hand grabbing at his sleeve—
"Mr. Pier—"
A firm grip yanked him backward.
"Are you stupid?" an officer grumbled, pulling him away from the chaos. "Didn't you see your friends went out through the back?"
Callum blinked. He hadn't seen. He hadn't even thought to check.
He'd been too busy thinking about Micah.
About why his hug had felt so… final.
The officer shook his head, already escorting him toward the back exit. "Fucking rich kids," he muttered.
Callum followed the officer through the station and to a narrow door tucked inconspicuously between a break room and an interrogation room.
The alley was quiet in comparison to the chaos at the front.
And leaning against the side of his sleek black car, arms crossed, was Ryan.
The moment Callum spotted him, some of the tension in his shoulders melted.
Ryan grinned lazily. "Figured you needed a lift, Tyson."
Callum groaned, descending the short steps toward his best friend. "Ryan, you have no idea how happy I am to see you."
Ryan smirked. "Not happy enough to punch me, I hope."
Callum let out a short, exhausted laugh. "No promises."
He climbed into the passenger seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh. His whole body ached. His knuckles, his ribs, his mind. His heart.
He didn't even want to think about how bad the headlines were.
Didn't want to think about how disastrous the next board meeting would be.
It would only add to his headache.
Maybe if Damian had punched him harder, he wouldn't have to deal with any of this shit.