But the longer he watched his son alone on that bench—building and dismantling a tower while surrounded by people desperate to touch Hawthorne money—the more something inside him hardened.
All of it felt obscene.
His fingers tightened around his champagne glass.
Across the mezzanine, he saw the microphone.
He didn’t remember choosing.
He just started walking.
“Nate—” His assistant, Marjorie, appeared, concern flashing. “You’re not scheduled—”
He kept going.
Conversations died as he reached the mic.
He tapped it once.
Silence fell.
“Thank you for being here,” he began smoothly. Autopilot. He could command rooms like this in his sleep.
His gaze drifted—CEOs, actors, politicians.
Then he found Oliver.
“I hadn’t planned to speak,” he said. “But tonight clarified something for me.”
The room leaned in.
“I’ve spent my life chasing impossible ideas,” he continued. “Moonshots. Ridiculous visions that somehow become real.”
A ripple of polite laughter.
He didn’t smile.
“My son,” he said quietly, “hasn’t spoken in two years.”
The air shifted.
“It’s not for lack of effort,” Nate continued. “We’ve tried everything. But he remains silent.”
His throat tightened.
“So here’s my challenge.”
The words came heavy.