BROODING ON THE GAME

Victor

I sat in my favorite armchair, the creak of the old wood accompanying every shift of my weight as I flipped through the channels.

Nothing seemed worth settling on. The weekend usually gave me a brief respite from the constant grind at the construction site, though my thoughts rarely strayed far from work. 

"Heather," I called out to my wife, keeping my eyes on the screen. "Coffee and toast." My tone was clipped, automatic. 

A faint growl of disapproval came from the kitchen, but eventually, I heard her moving around. I finally stopped on a local news channel, just in time to catch the afternoon highlights. 

"In other news," the newscaster began, "a large crowd gathered today outside the city library's event center, where construction tycoon Patrick Anderson was a guest speaker..." 

I stiffened at the mention of his name, the remote in my hand frozen mid-air. My jaw clenched as I leaned forward. Of course. Patrick Anderson. The name alone was enough to sour my day. 

Heather walked in, a tray in hand, just as the camera switched to the image of Patrick and his grandson, all smiles, basking in the admiration of the crowd. She placed the tray down carefully, likely sensing the storm brewing inside me. 

"Why is it always him?" I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. "He's not the only one running a construction company in this city." 

Heather remained silent as she set the table before me. She knew better than to engage when I was like this. 

"It's disgusting," I said, louder now. "Why wasn't I invited to that event? Is his company really doing that much better than mine?" 

I didn't wait for an answer. I knew the truth, but admitting it was like swallowing glass. 

"Maybe it was an oversight," my wife said, her voice calm but strained. She always tried to smooth things over. I didn't bother responding. 

Then, the broadcast shifted, and my stomach dropped. The screen showed my stepdaughter, Selena, standing on the podium with Patrick Anderson and his grandson. She was smiling—beaming, even—as she handed a wreath to them. 

"What the hell is this?" I barked, my voice sharp enough to make Heather flinch. 

She followed my gaze, her face paling as she took in the sight. "Victor... I'm sure there's an explanation," she said.

"An explanation?" I snapped, standing abruptly. "She lied to me! She said she was going to work this morning, and now she's parading around with him! What is she doing with my rival?" 

Heather opened her mouth, likely to calm me down, but I wasn't interested in being pacified. 

Heather looked at the screen again, clearly trying to piece it together, when Clara, walked in. "What's going on?" she asked, her eyes darting between us and the TV. 

I pointed furiously at the screen. "Your sister," I spat, "has been working with Patrick Anderson behind my back! This is the work she does."

As the image disappeared from the screen, my frustration doubled. "Where is it? Where is that picture?" I growled, grabbing my phone.

My fingers fumbled as I searched for the news segment online. The anger bubbling inside me only made the task harder.

Clara frowned, confused. "Wait, what?" She exclaimed, "That doesn't make any sense." 

"Oh, it makes perfect sense," I hissed, "She's feeding him information. She's helping him! How else do you explain this?" 

My search yielded results, and there it was; Selena smiling brightly alongside Patrick Anderson and his smug grandson, Richard. I shoved the phone into Clara's hands.

"Look at that! What do you call this?" I asked.

Heather who had been quiet until now, leaned over to peek at the phone. "Darling, seriously? It's just a photo from some event. Maybe she was helping with the library or something."

I shot her a glare. "Helping with the library? Does this look like library work to you?" I snatched the phone back, holding it up dramatically. "This is betrayal! She's dining with the enemy!"

Heather tried again. "Victor," she said, "Please, let's wait until Selena comes home and ask her..." 

"I don't need to wait for anything!" I snapped. "The evidence is right there!" 

Clara stepped closer, taking my phone out of my hand. "Dad, relax," she said, scrolling through the images with exaggerated calmness. Then, with a teasing smile, she added, "By the way, who's the guy in the middle? He's cute." 

I glared at her. "Cute?" I growled, throwing my hands up, "He's not cute, Clara. He's dangerous. That's Richard Anderson. Patrick's grandson. The future of Pander Construction Company. And if he's even half as cunning as his grandfather, he'll bury Lawtor Construction alive and your sister is standing right there, helping him do it!" 

Clara laughed softly. "Dad, you need to chill. I'm sure there's a perfectly normal explanation for all of this. Maybe Selena was just trying to network or something."

"Network?" I hissed, pacing the room. "If by 'network' you mean handing over our secrets on a silver platter, then sure. Networking."

I stopped pacing and glared at them as a slow smile crept onto my face. An idea began to form in my mind. "Oh, I know what I'll do," I said, mostly to myself. 

"What do you mean?" Clara asked cautiously. 

I shook my head, already heading toward my study. "Don't worry about it. You'll see soon enough." 

With that, I left them behind, closing the study door with a finality that echoed in the silence of the room.

Meanwhile, in the stillness of my study, I bolted the door from the inside and flipped on the light, casting a dim glow over the antique office. Dust clung to every surface, a testament to how long it had been since I'd last stepped foot in the room. 

I moved quickly, my eyes scanning the shelves until I found what I was looking for; a framed painting on the far wall. Pulling it aside, I revealed a hidden safe. My fingers worked the combination lock with practiced ease, the soft clicks echoing in the silence. 

Inside the safe, my hand found its target: a thick, weathered file. I pulled it out carefully and placed it on the desk. The desk groaned slightly under its weight as I stared at it for a moment, lost in thought. 

I picked up a pen, my mind racing, but almost immediately set it down again. The file could wait. Instead, I reached for my phone, dialing a familiar number. 

"Yes, it's me," I said, my voice low and firm. "Set up the meeting for next week." 

I ended the call and sat back in the chair, the file still unopened before me. My thoughts churned, plotting the next move in a game I was determined to win.