Chapter 2: Secret Sparks (Leo POV)

Chapter 2: The Weight of the Name (Daniel POV)

I'm in the boardroom, twenty floors up, glass walls gleaming under harsh lights. Ten suits sit around the long table, eyes on me as I lay out blueprints, crisp lines, sharp angles, my latest design. My voice is steady, numbers tight, when Dad cuts in from the head of the table. "Enough, Daniel," he says, loud, gravelly, slamming a hand on the wood. The room goes still, pens freezing mid-scribble.

I stop, papers rustling in my grip. "What?"

He leans forward, gray hair slicked back, eyes like steel. "You're stalling. No wife, no kid, Warrick Designs needs a future. When are you settling down?"

Heat crawls up my neck. Everyone's staring, board members, assistants, Claire scribbling notes in the corner. "I'm focused on the firm," I say, keeping it even, though my jaw's tight.

"Focus isn't enough," he snaps, standing now, chair scraping loud. "You're 35, running my company, and you've got nothing to show for it. No heir, no legacy, I'll replace you with someone who can deliver."

The air's thick, whispers ripple down the table. My fists clench under the blueprints, knuckles white. "I've got it handled," I lie, voice low, but he snorts, sits back, and waves me off like I'm a kid.

"Finish your report," he says, cold. I do, short, clipped, every word a fight to stay calm. They nod, murmur approval, but I feel Dad's glare burning through me. The meeting ends, and I'm out fast, jacket flapping as I stride back to my office, door clicking shut behind me. My name's on it, Daniel Warrick, CEO, but it's his, always his.

I drop into the leather chair, still warm from before, and I rub my temples, hard, trying to shake his voice. The blueprints sit untouched, mocking me. My phone buzzes on the desk, Mom again. Ten missed calls in three days, piling up like bricks on my chest. I shove it in a drawer, slamming it, but the buzzing lingers in my skull. She wants a grandkid, a little Warrick to carry on, same old song, just louder lately. I can't deal with her tears, not after Dad's stunt.

The door swings open, no knock. It's Mom, barging in, her heels clicking sharp on the polished floor. She's in a navy dress, hair pinned tight, eyes red and wet already. "Daniel," she says, voice breaking, shutting the door with a soft thud. "We need to talk."

"Mom, not now," I say, standing, hands up like I can stop her.

"Yes, now," she insists, crossing the room fast, clutching her purse like a lifeline. She stops by my desk, tears spilling over. "I've been calling, you won't answer. I'm your mother, your mother Daniel! And you're shutting me out!"

"I'm busy," I say, flat, but she steps closer, grabbing my arm, her grip shaky but firm.

"Busy? Too busy to give me a grandchild?" Her voice cracks, loud in the quiet. "I'm alone, Daniel, your father's all work, and you're all I have. I need this, you owe me a family!"

My stomach twists, guilt and anger tangling up. "I don't owe you that," I say, pulling free, stepping back. "I'm not ready."

"Not ready?" she cries, wiping her face with a trembling hand. "You're 35! I see my friends with grandkids, smiling, living, and I've got nothing because you won't try! Please, just meet someone, Emily's perfect, sweet..."

"Stop," I cut her off, sharp. "I don't want Emily. I don't want this."

She freezes, eyes wide, tears streaking her mascara. "What's wrong with you?" she whispers, hurt slicing through. "Why can't you do this for me?"

I turn away, staring out the window, San Francisco sprawls below, tall buildings stabbing the sky, bay glinting far off. "I can't," I say, voice low, barely holding it together. She sniffs, grabs her purse, and she storms out, heels echoing down the hall. The door bangs shut, and I'm alone again, pulse thumping in my ears.

I slump back into the chair, leather creaking, and I drag a hand over my face. Dad's threat, Mom's tears, they're closing in, a cage I can't break. I've been hiding it forever, since I was a kid, faking dates with girls, wearing this perfect-heir mask. If they knew I'm into guys, not wives, Dad would rip this company out from under me, no hesitation. My fists clench on the desk, wood cool under my skin. The exhibition's this weekend, Pierce Gallery, my sponsorship gig. It's a distraction, a way to look like I've got my shit together, maybe buy some time.

The desk phone rings, jarring me upright. I grab it, steady my voice. "Daniel Warrick."

"Mr. Warrick, Sarah from Pierce," she chirps, bright and fast. "Just confirming, exhibition's Saturday. You're still in?"

"Yeah," I say, glancing at the calendar, red circle glaring. "All set?"

"Yep, your name's on the program, VIP spot's yours. Excited?"

"Sure," I force, a thin smile she can't see. "Thanks." I hang up, chair creaking as I lean back. It's small, local artists, rich snobs, but it might keep the board off my back. For now.

Hours drag, paperwork, calls, Claire dropping folders on my desk. I'm locking up late when my cell rings, cutting through the quiet. Dad's number. My stomach drops, cold and hard. I can't dodge him, he'll know something's up. I answer, hand steady, insides churning. "Hey, Dad."

"Daniel," he says, low, hard, pissed already. "Your mother's a mess, crying all night because of you. I'm done waiting."

"I'm working on it," I lie, throat closing tight.

"No, you're not," he snaps, voice like a blade. "I've got eyes everywhere, you're stalling. Marry someone, give me a son, or you're out. One month, clock's ticking, boy. I'll find someone else if you can't."

The line goes dead, silence crashing in before I can respond. I drop the phone, it clatters on the desk, loud, and my hands shake, trembling bad. He's not bluffing, every word's a hammer. I stare out the window, city lights glittering, mocking me. One month. Marry or lose it all, company, name, everything. I can't cave, can't live that lie, but the weight's crushing me, unyielding. I'm drowning, and there's no way out.