By Viktoria Pavlova

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After 5 years of running a company Conor Coldwell never wanted, his recreational habits surface, threatening to ruin his career and his father’s: Harvey Coldwell, one of the most feared men in business.

He couldn’t tell if he was still drunk or just hungover. Conor straightened his back and stepped out of the elevator. Hands shaking in the pockets of his designer pants, he nodded and hurried to his office.He watched as his employees switched their shopping tabs to work tabs, and hid their phones.  At least they were faking too. That made him feel better. 

“Mr. Coldwell! Good morning, sir!” said Michael, his intern.

“Morning Mike. Sorry I’m late, traffic.” A smart guy like Mike wasn’t gullible enough to believe “traffic,” but he wouldn’t question his boss either. 

“Of course, sir,” Mike cleared his throat and followed him into his office. 

Conor sunk into his brown leather chair and grabbed his desk drawer handle. Inside was his survival kit. He’d made it in college when he first started drinking—the day he found out he’d be taking over the company. It’s how he covered up his drinking. To steady his voice, talk concisely. 

“I rescheduled your 10am, sir. Your father will be here at 1.” 

Conor closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. 

“I told him you were in another meeting that was running late—”

Conor lifted his hand, signaling that Mike stop talking. He needed a Tylenol or another drink, and he wanted to do neither of these things with Mike around. 

Mike looked like a little boy craving praise.

“Good. Thanks Mike. You did good.” Mike’s mouth twitched upwards. “Let me know when my dad’s arrived.” 

After the door closed, Conor grabbed the steaming mug Mike left at his desk and opened one of the travel sized whiskey bottles, spilling all of the contents inside. 

He knew his dad arrived when all the noise died outside. Mike was breathless as he opened the door for his father, who paid no attention to him. He spoke into his phone, a loud, booming voice. Conor’s temples throbbed and stomach churned in protest. 

Conor took a big sip of his coffee. This was his office, his building, his employees. He couldn’t be a scared little boy anymore. 

Conor leaped from his chair and plastered a smile on his face. Before he could speak, Harvey Coldwell raised a finger, signaling for Conor to wait, and to do it silently. They were on his time. The ever important Harvey Coldwell. The feared and revered king of Wall Street. His security hung back by the door where Mike frantically searched for a way in.

Conor cleared his throat and sat down, taking another swig of coffee. He sloshed the burning liquid around his mouth for a few moments. 

“Call me when it’s fixed,” his father said in a voice Conor only heard when he was in trouble. Ice spread through his veins.

Hanging up the phone, Harvey turned to his security who promptly shut the door, leaving Mike defeated. 

“Conor.” Harvey Coldwell walked towards his son’s desk.

“Dad.” Conor didn’t look him in the eyes, “Thanks for rescheduling. I had another—”

“Another episode of drunken stupidness? Another bender? Another night of embarrassing your family?”

Conor’s facade crumbled.

“What?” He asked. What did he know?  

“You’re lucky O’Brien at The Times owes me a favor.” He looked disgusted. “Or else your drunken brawl last night would’ve been front page news!”

Dad was screaming now. People could hear. He waited for the glass walls to crack and shatter. He hoped they did.

“I just wanted to have a nightcap Dad. I think you—”

“That I would get it?” 

Conor shut his mouth.

“No, son, I don’t get it. I don’t drink all day and then embarrass myself in a drunken stupor.”

“Dad, I don’t—”

Harvey placed his palms on the desk and leaned over. This is when a younger Conor would’ve burst into tears.

“You do. This isn’t the first time something like this has surfaced. But I’m done fixing your bullshit.” His dad spoke in a voice so quiet and intense, Conor was sure he was sober.

“What do I do?” Conor was surprised at how weak he sounded. 

“You’re going to get up,” Harvey picked up the mug from his desk, smelled it, and sighed. He took a sip before spilling it into the garbage can. “You’re going to go home, pack your stuff, and go on a business trip.”

“What?” Conor asked.  Was “business trip” code? Was his dad setting him up to be killed? 

“You’re going to a private rehab center. You’re going to work the program. You’re going to be the best patient there, and if not, you’ll stay there until you are,” Harvey said as his phone began to ring.

“Dad I don’t have a—”

“Am I understood?” his father asked. Conor wanted to react, but knew he’d regret it. 

“Yes, sir.”

Harvey picked up the phone, listening for a few moments before shouting, “This is my son. Not a shit-faced celebrity. My kid. Do you understand?”

He listened for a moment.

“Good. And I want it done before dinner.” His father hung up the phone, and looked at Conor.

“You’re on the plane tonight,” He said, and left. 

Process

This piece started out as a freewrite from two years ago. Once I had to start working on my anthology submission, I was scrolling through a document of my freewrites with Nevin, my mentor, and found a small blurb about a boy dealing with pressure and addiction and realized I’d never written about something like that. I turned the blurb, which was written in first person, and changed it into a short story written in the third person. Of course, my piece was originally 1,000 words over the limit, but my mentor helped me bring it down and, in the process, make it something I was proud of. Every year, I re-learn the value of words themselves are important, rather than the quantity, and that sometimes it’s necessary to just say what you mean rather than find a hundred ways to describe it.