Chapter 69: Control Is An Illusion

Marcus's POV

The elevator ride up to my father’s floor is silent. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that presses against your ears, fills your head with thoughts you don’t want to think. Damian stands to my right, arms folded, jaw set like stone. Peter leans against the mirrored wall, hands shoved into his pockets, bouncing his heel despite himself.

I grip my crutches tighter than necessary.

This was our idea—all three of us.

We weren’t coming to fight—not this time. We were coming to confront him, yes, but also to fix something. Or at least try. The company was imploding in real time. Stock prices sliding. Board members leaking statements. Lawyers circling like sharks. And at the center of it all was a man who refused to let go of control even as the ground gave way beneath him.

Our father.

The elevator dings. Damian pushes off the wall first. “Stay sharp,” he mutters.

Peter cracks a thin smile. “Always.”

The hallway outside my father’s office is chaos wrapped in corporate polish. Assistants whisper urgently into headsets. A junior executive rushes past clutching a tablet like it’s a life raft. Someone argues quietly near the glass conference room, their voices clipped and panicked.

This isn’t the McKay Enterprises empire I grew up watching. This is something fractured.

As we get closer to my father’s office, raised voices cut through the hum. Angry voices.

We slow instinctively.

“…you assured me this was handled!” a man snaps.

“I assured you we were investigating,” my father fires back, his voice sharp, controlled—but strained.

“That equipment could have been on my team,” the other voice growls. “On my athlete. And now someone's kid is in a coma, Richard!”

I freeze. Damian’s shoulders tense beside me. The door to my father’s office flies open. Peter Ramsey storms out.

Bella’s father looks nothing like the polished titan I’ve seen at galas and fundraisers. His face is flushed, eyes wild, tie loosened like he’s been choking on it. He doesn’t even glance at us—doesn’t acknowledge our existence—as he stalks down the hallway.

“This isn’t over,” he spits over his shoulder, though whether it’s meant for my father or the universe, I don’t know.

He slams the elevator button repeatedly, muttering curses under his breath. The doors open, swallow him whole, and slide shut again.

The hallway goes eerily quiet.

Damian exhales slowly. “That went well.”

Peter shakes his head. “Ramsey’s pulling out. Or threatening to.”

My stomach tightens. We exchange a look, then Damian steps forward and pushes open the office door. Inside, my father stands behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back to us. His shoulders are rigid, posture screaming restraint, barely holding together.

“Then tell the board I don’t care what the optics are,” he snaps into the phone. “We do not admit fault until the investigation is complete.”

He listens for a beat, then slams the phone down onto the desk hard enough to rattle the framed awards behind him. The sound echoes.

“Damn it,” he mutters.

“Dad.”

He turns. For a fraction of a second, I see surprise flash across his face—raw, unguarded. Then the mask slides back into place.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“We need to talk,” Damian says evenly.

“This isn’t the time.”

Peter gestures vaguely at the office. “Looks like the perfect time.”

My father opens his mouth to snap back—and then it happens.

He stiffens. His hand flies to his chest. The color drains from his face so fast it’s terrifying. One moment he’s furious, the next his expression twists in pain, his breath hitching like it’s been yanked from him.

“Dad?” Damian steps forward instantly.

My father grabs the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. “I—” He sucks in a shallow breath. “Something’s—”

He doesn’t finish. He staggers.

Peter lunges forward, barely catching him before he collapses, the two of them crashing awkwardly against the desk.

“Dad!” Peter shouts. Adrenaline slams into me, wiping everything else from my mind.

“Call 911,” Damian shouts, already moving around the desk.

I fumble for my phone, hands shaking as I dial, my heart pounding so hard it hurts.

“Emergency services,” the operator answers.

“My father collapsed,” I say quickly. “Chest pain. Office building—”

I rattle off the address while Damian eases our father down into the chair, loosening his collar, his voice low and steady.

“Dad, look at me,” Damian says. “Stay with us.”

My father’s breathing is shallow, uneven. Sweat beads along his temple. His eyes dart wildly, unfocused.

“I can’t—” he gasps. “Pressure—”

“It’s okay,” Damian says firmly, though his hands tremble just slightly. “Help is coming.”

Peter hovers uselessly for half a second before grabbing a wastebasket, sliding it closer in case he needs it. His usual bravado is gone, replaced by raw fear.

I end the call and drop my phone onto the desk, my chest tight. For all the anger. For all the resentment. For every battle we’ve fought— This is still our father.

The man who taught us to skate. Who shouted himself hoarse at our games. Who shaped our lives even as he tried to control them.

“Dad,” I say quietly, moving closer on my crutches. “You’re going to be okay.”

His eyes flick to me, glassy, unfocused—but they recognize me.

“Marcus,” he breathes. “You… you shouldn’t be here.”

Something bitter and sad twists in my chest. “I know.”

Sirens wail faintly in the distance.

Damian presses two fingers gently to our father’s wrist, his jaw clenched. “Stay with us. Don’t fight us.”

For the first time I can remember, my father didn’t argue.

He squeezes Damian’s sleeve weakly.

“I didn’t—” he whispers, struggling for breath. “I was trying to—”

“I know,” Damian says softly. “We know.”

The sirens grow louder.

At that moment—watching the man who once seemed unbreakable struggle just to breathe—I understand something I’d never fully grasped before.

Control is an illusion. Legacy is fragile. And everything we’ve been fighting about—hockey, companies, futures—means nothing if we lose each other entirely. The office door bursts open as paramedics rush in, voices calm and authoritative, pushing us gently aside as they take over.

“Step back, please.”

I do, my hands clenched at my sides, heart racing. As they work, Damian stands rigid beside me, Peter’s hand gripping his shoulder like an anchor. I don’t know what happens next. For the company. For our family. For my father. But standing there, watching the paramedics lift him onto a stretcher, one truth settles heavy and undeniable in my chest: Everything is about to change.

Whether we’re ready or not