Alex McCall padded towards the en-suite bathroom, a sprawling affair of marble and chrome that could rival a small spa. The door snicked shut behind him, a brief respite. He caught his reflection in the mirror – wild hair, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his brow, eyes that held a shadow the California sun couldn't quite burn away.
The shower was scalding, jets of water pummeling his skin, trying to wash away the dream, the lingering unease, the phantom scent of pine and decay. Steam filled the glass enclosure, blurring the edges of the opulent bathroom, and with it, memories, sharper and more unwelcome than the dream, began to surface.
The hospital corridor. Cold, sterile, smelling of antiseptic and fear. He was small, so small, his hand lost in his father's tight grip. His mother's voice, usually so warm, was raw, laced with an anguish that terrified him. "He was unconscious, Rafe! For hours! And Scott… Scott tried to stop you from moving him, and you pushed him! He hit his head!"
His father's voice, a low rumble, tight with a control Alex would later recognize as barely suppressed fury. "He needed a specialist, Melissa! Not some small-town doctor who'd probably misdiagnose a common cold! And Scott shouldn't have gotten in the way."
"He's your son too, Rafael! Both of them are! You can't just… just rip one away!" Her words fractured, a sob catching in her throat. "This… this thing that happened to Alex in the woods, it's not normal. And you leaving, taking him… it's breaking us apart."
Alex remembered the sting of tears, his own and his mother's. He remembered Scott's pale face, a small bandage on his temple, looking at him with a confusion that mirrored his own. When his father had turned to leave, a silent, resolute figure, Alex hadn't hesitated. He'd pulled his hand from his mother's desperate grasp and followed his dad. He was closer to his father, always had been. And even then, a nascent ambition, a feeling that Beacon Hills was too small, too confining, had begun to stir within him. The incident in the woods, the strange blankness followed by flashes of… something else, something vast and old that he couldn't articulate, had only solidified that feeling. He didn't belong there. He needed more.
That ambition, coupled with the unsettling, fragmented memories of what felt like a whole other lifetime before this one – knowledge of technologies and concepts far beyond his years – had spurred him. With his father's initially bewildered but eventually supportive backing, they'd laid the foundation for McCall Industries. His father handled the business, the endless meetings, the corporate maneuvering. Alex provided the sparks, the uncanny insights, the almost precognitive understanding of market trends and technological leaps. He was the architect of dreams his father built into reality.
Alex shut off the water, the sudden silence almost as jarring as the noise. He grabbed a ridiculously plush towel, toweling off with brisk efficiency. The past was the past. It fueled him, sure, but he didn't live there.
Back in the bedroom, Isabelle was gone, a faint indentation on the pillows the only evidence she'd been there at all. Good. He preferred it that way. He strode to his walk-in closet, a space larger than some LA apartments, lined with meticulously organized designer clothes. Today called for something that projected effortless cool with an undercurrent of don't-mess-with-me. He selected a pair of perfectly tailored black distressed jeans, a soft, charcoal grey cashmere V-neck sweater that probably cost more than a used car, and a black leather biker jacket with subtle silver hardware. For his feet, sleek black leather Chelsea boots. And, of course, the earrings – a pair of simple, elegant silver hoops, one in each lobe, the kind that caught the light just so, a nod to a style he'd picked up from some K-Pop idol's music video and made his own.
A quick glance in the mirror. Hair artfully tousled, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Ready to face the day. Or, more accurately, ready to face his father.
Downstairs, the pristine silence of his penthouse was broken only by the hum of the state-of-the-art espresso machine. He bypassed it. He'd get coffee at the office. His car keys – a sleek fob for a matte black BMW M3 E92 coupe, a beast from the late 2000s, modified to within an inch of its life with a throaty custom exhaust that announced its arrival from three blocks away, lowered suspension that hugged the road, and an engine tune that made it obscenely fast – were already in his hand. It was a relic by some Hollywood standards, but Alex loved its aggressive lines and raw power.
(PIC IS HERE )
The ride to the McCall Industries skyscraper in Century City was a blur of expertly navigated traffic and the deep, satisfying rumble of his car. He pulled into his reserved spot in the underground garage, the valets scrambling with a practiced efficiency that bordered on fear. He tossed the keys to one with a curt nod, already moving towards the private elevator, the scent of expensive cologne and rebellion trailing in his wake.
The lobby of McCall Industries was a cathedral of glass, steel, and hushed efficiency. Staff members, spotting him, offered respectful greetings, "Good morning, Mr. McCall," their voices a mixture of awe and slight trepidation. Alex McCall was a legend within these walls – the boy genius, the enigma, the boss's son who could make or break a multi-million dollar project with a single, casually brilliant observation before disappearing for a week. He offered a charming, noncommittal smile to a few, his mind already on the inevitable confrontation. "Morning, Brenda, love the new haircut. Steve, those quarterly reports better sing, or I'm teaching your stapler to play 'Flight of the Bumblebee'."
As he stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor, his father's secretary, Ms. Albright – a woman whose calm demeanor and impeccably tailored suits had weathered more corporate storms than a seasoned sea captain – approached him, her expression as carefully neutral as Switzerland.
"Alex," she said, her voice low, the epitome of professional discretion. "Your father is… particularly displeased this morning."
Alex's easy grin, the one he'd been wearing since he left the penthouse, faltered, then vanished, replaced by a look of theatrical woe. "Oh, joy. What flavor of 'displeased' are we talking about today, Ms. A? Did I accidentally invent cold fusion again and forget to patent it under the company name? Because I told him, that was a one-time oopsie."
Ms. Albright didn't crack a smile, though her eyes held a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or possibly pity. "I believe it pertains to your extracurricular activities, Alex. He's in his office. And he has the morning newsfeed on the main screen." She paused, her voice dropping half a decibel. "Loudly."
"Fantastic." Alex sighed dramatically, running a hand through his perfectly messy hair. "Lead the way to the gallows, Ms. Albright. Or, you know, just point. I think I remember where the execution chamber is."
She escorted him to the imposing double doors of Rafael McCall's office. As they approached, Alex could already hear the muffled but distinct sound of his father's raised voice, punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like a news anchor's overly enthusiastic, slightly vapid narration.
Ms. Albright gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, 'Good luck, you'll need it,' then discreetly retreated, a silent, graceful exit worthy of a ninja.
Alex took a breath, plastered on his most innocent, 'who, me?' expression – the one that usually worked on everyone but his parents – and pushed open the doors.
The office was vast, with a panoramic view of the city that even his penthouse couldn't quite match. But Alex's attention was immediately drawn to the wall-sized screen dominating one side of the room. On it, frozen in a slightly blurry paparazzi shot, was his own face, looking entirely too pleased with himself, leaning in very close to a stunning, very famous, and very blonde Hollywood actress in the passenger seat of his BMW. The headline screamed in offensively large font: "ALEX MCCALL'S LATEST LEADING LADY? BOY TYCOON GETS COZY WITH STARLET SIENNA GLAZE!"
Rafael McCall stood before the screen, arms crossed, his expression thunderous. He was a tall man, imposing even without the tailored suit, his dark hair showing distinguished threads of grey at the temples. He looked, Alex thought with a detached sort of amusement that was probably a defense mechanism, like a Roman emperor who'd just found out his favorite gladiator had been using the Colosseum for illegal chariot races.
"Explain," Rafael bit out, his voice dangerously calm, which was always far more terrifying than when he yelled. He gestured sharply at the screen with a pen that probably cost more than Alex's first (admittedly stolen) car. "This. Now."
Alex sauntered further into the room, feigning a casual glance at the image. "Explain what, Dad? Looks like a guy giving a friend a ride. Public service, really. You know how hard it is to get a cab in Beverly Hills after midnight, especially for someone as… recognizable as Sienna." He gave a magnanimous shrug.
Rafael's eyes narrowed. "A 'friend'? Sienna Glaze? Alex, she's practically old enough to be your… well, not your mother, but definitely an older, much more established aunt who probably has a mortgage and a sensible retirement plan! And last I checked, 'friends' don't usually look like they're about to engage in tonsil hockey in the front seat of a car that costs more than most people's houses!"
Alex winced internally but kept his cool, adopting a thoughtful expression. "Okay, maybe the angle is a little misleading. Paparazzi, you know? They love to create drama. I was probably just… telling her a really fascinating anecdote about quantum physics. She's surprisingly interested in string theory. Or maybe I had something in my eye. Yeah, that's it. Dust mote. LA is surprisingly dusty."
"String theory," Rafael repeated, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so thick you could spread it on toast. He jabbed a finger towards the screen. "Is that what you call that look on your face? The 'string theory' seduction? Or the 'Help, I have a dust mote the size of a small planet in my eye' plea? For God's sake, Alex, who are you trying to fool? Me? Or yourself?" He turned his head slightly towards the doorway where Ms. Albright had momentarily reappeared, a sleek tablet in her hand. "Ms. Albright, if you would be so kind as to refresh my son's memory regarding the esteemed Ms. Glaze. Marital status? Progeny? Current relationship with reality?"
Ms. Albright stepped forward, her face a perfect mask of professional efficiency, though Alex swore he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "Sienna Glaze, married to director Marcus Thorne for twelve years. Two children, ages ten and eight, sir."
Alex let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock admiration. "Wow, she carries it well. Kids, a career… Good for her. Very inspiring."
Rafael looked like he was about to spontaneously combust, or possibly transform into something large and hairy with claws, which, Alex mused, wouldn't be entirely out of place in some of the stories Melissa used to tell about Beacon Hills. "ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?" he roared, the sound bouncing off the expensive wood paneling and rattling a collection of antique globes. "Your mother called me at six AM this morning! Six! AM! Screaming! Apparently, this little 'friendly lift' where you were 'discussing string theory' is all over every gossip site from here to Timbuktu! And guess who gets the fallout? Me! Always me! My ears are still ringing!"
He paced, running a hand through his hair, a gesture Alex recognized as Peak Rafael Frustration. "This isn't just about one stupid picture, Alex! It's about a pattern! You're sixteen years old! You're supposed to be in school! When was the last time you actually attended a class at that ridiculously expensive private academy I enrolled you in? The one that costs more per semester than my first house? You're out every night, partying, causing scandals, treating this city like your personal amusement park, and generally giving me enough grey hairs to knit a sweater!"
Alex leaned against a ridiculously expensive abstract sculpture that looked like a melted traffic cone. "Hey, I go to the school sometimes. The parking lot is a great place to network. And technically, I'm providing valuable economic stimulus to the local entertainment and paparazzi sectors. Think of the jobs I'm creating, Dad. I'm practically a philanthropist."
"Enough!" Rafael slammed his hand down on his polished mahogany desk, making a gold pen holder jump and a small, very expensive-looking bonsai tree tremble. "I've had it! Your mother and I have discussed this. Well, she discussed it, very loudly, for approximately forty-seven minutes, and I eventually agreed because my eardrums were threatening to secede from the union and form their own, quieter nation." He took a deep, steadying breath, visibly trying to regain his composure. "You're going back to Beacon Hills."
Alex straightened up, his playful demeanor vanishing like cheap champagne bubbles. "Beacon Hills? Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do there? Count trees? Enter a pie-eating contest? Debate the thrilling nuances of small-town zoning laws? There's nothing for me in that… that glorified cul-de-sac where the most exciting thing to happen is a new flavor of artisanal jam at the farmer's market."
"You're going to live like a normal teenager," Rafael stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You're going to go to Beacon Hills High. You're going to spend time with your brother, with Melissa. You're going to enjoy your school life. Maybe even learn how to use a library for something other than a quiet place to take a nap between parties."
Alex scoffed, a sound of pure, unadulterated disbelief. "Enjoy school life? Dad, I aced the SATs when I was twelve. I could teach half the classes at that school, probably blindfolded, while juggling flaming torches. There's nothing for me to study there. Unless they've suddenly introduced advanced theoretical physics and ancient Sumerian poetry to the curriculum, which, call me cynical, I doubt."
"Did I stutter, Alex?" Rafael's eyes were like chips of ice, a look that had made grown CEOs weep. "I said enjoy school life, not study it. Maybe you'll learn something about humility. Responsibility. Or at least how to avoid getting your face plastered across the internet with women old enough to be your mother's bridge partner who, by the way, Melissa also saw and is now planning an intervention for my social choices." He sighed, a hint of weariness creeping into his tone, the fight momentarily draining from him. "This decision is made. Your mother insists. And frankly, I'm tired of fighting it. And tired of this." He waved a hand dismissively at the screen, where Alex was still mid-string-theory-seduction.
Alex pushed off the sculpture, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Wow. So you just agreed? Way to ditch your son, Dad. Throw him to the wolves, or in this case, the small-town gossips and probably actual wolves, knowing my luck and that town."
Rafael's expression softened, just a fraction, a flicker of the father Alex occasionally glimpsed behind the CEO. "No, Alex. I'm not ditching you. I'll be out there too, after I've handled a few pressing matters here. This… situation with your mother… it needs sorting. We all need a reset. A change of scenery."
Alex jabbed a finger back at him, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "Oh, I see! So you just want to kick me out first, get me out of your hair so I don't accidentally bankrupt another one of your competitors with a 'harmless' prank involving their mainframe and a flock of pigeons. Then, after you've conveniently cleared your schedule here, you can swoop into Beacon Hills, play the concerned father, and sort out the 'family problem.' Real smooth, Dad. Way to throw your son under the bus to pave your own runway to domestic tranquility."
"That's enough, Alex! Shut up!" Rafael's voice was sharp again, the brief moment of connection gone, buried under layers of frustration. "You're leaving tomorrow morning. First flight. Ms. Albright will make the arrangements. Pack light. I doubt your entourage will fit in Melissa's guest room." He turned away, staring out the window at the sprawling city below, a clear dismissal. "Now get out of my office. I have actual work to do, unlike some people who seem to think 'empire building' involves collecting scandalous headlines."
Alex stood there for a moment, a whirlwind of anger, frustration, and a strange, unwelcome flicker of something that might have been hurt. But he quickly smothered it. He was Alex McCall. He didn't do hurt. He did witty comebacks and strategic retreats.
"Fine," he said, his voice cool and even, though his mind was already racing. "But if I accidentally become mayor of Beacon Hills by next week, don't come crying to me when they want to rename the town 'Alexville.' And I expect a hefty consulting fee for revitalizing their undoubtedly dismal local economy."
With a final, insolent smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he turned on his heel and walked out, the silent, heavy doors closing behind him with a decisive click. Beacon Hills. He was actually going back to Beacon Hills. This was going to be monumentally, spectacularly, un-freaking-believably boring.
Or maybe not. A tiny, almost imperceptible thrill, as unexpected as the dream's lion, curled in his stomach. After all, boredom was just a challenge waiting for a sufficiently creative mind. And Alex McCall had creativity in spades.