Chapter 7 – Monthly Reckoning
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The morning sun had barely pierced through the haze when Smith's sleek black sedan stopped at the university's drop-off point. Smith adjusted his bag strap and stepped out. Hawthorne opened the door with his usual efficiency.
"Master Smith," he said, cane poised lightly against his gloved hand. "Shall I wait for you, or return after class?"
Smith shook his head. "No need to wait. Just return after class."
Hawthorne inclined his head, a faint smile adorning his lips. "Very well. Have a productive morning, sir."
Smith walked across the campus, the hum of students, honking matatus, and bicycle bells accompanying his thoughts. He spotted Marcus at the edge of the quad, waiting by a bench, notebook in hand.
"Smith," Marcus called, waving briefly. "You look like you barely slept."
Smith managed a half-smile. "Family stuff. I'll be heading back to the manor after class for the family monthly meeting."
Marcus nodded, expression neutral. "Got it. Need a ride or anything?"
"No, Hawthorne's driving me. Thanks though."
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright. Let me know how it goes." His tone stayed casual, but Smith caught the quick flicker in his eyes—the same look he had seen when Marcus came to pick the document yesterday.
Later, as students filtered into the lecture hall, Jenny slipped into the seat beside Smith, her usual easy smile slightly strained.
"Missed you yesterday," Smith said, leaning back in his chair.
"Yeah... family business troubles," she replied lightly, fingers tightening around her bag strap. "Nothing major. Just the usual circus." She paused, then added with a small strained laugh, "You know how it is."
The lecture began as soon as the lecturer arrived. It droned on, words about political ideologies blending into background noise. Smith's mind wandered to the manor, the document, the monthly meeting, to the subtle influence of the caller. By the time the final bell rang, he felt the weight of the upcoming meeting pressing on him like the humid Nairobi air.
Smith left campus shortly after, stepping into the late midday sun. The black sedan awaited him, Hawthorne behind the wheel, calm and unreadable. They drove through traffic quietly, the city passing in tinted motion outside.
At the Griffith building downtown, Marcus entered his father Jack's sleek corner office. The older man sat behind a wide mahogany desk, reviewing reports with the same inscrutable expression he always wore.
"Boss, Smith's heading back to the manor today for the monthly meeting," Marcus said.
Jack leaned back, hands crossed. "Good. Keep an eye on him. The boy is testing his wings. Let's see how far he flies before he realizes they were fake."
Marcus nodded, face carefully blank. "Understood."
Jack's gaze lingered a moment longer. "You're doing well, son. Keep it that way."
Marcus left, the quiet tension of the office fading behind him.
The black sedan rolled through the iron gates of Wesson Manor, just as the sun started setting. The estate, near Heritage Avenue, rose three storeys behind manicured lawns and tall security walls. Stone columns flanked the entrance, and the wide veranda reflected the weight of old empire elegance—polished floors, heavy chandeliers visible through tall windows, and staff moving with quiet precision.
Smith stepped out. Hawthorne gave a polite nod before driving off to park. The front doors opened before Smith reached them.
Alexandria stood in the entrance hall, elegant in a tailored navy dress. She smiled, warm but measured. "Welcome back, little brother. The meeting starts in thirty minutes. Make sure you freshen up before that. Have you eaten?"
Smith muttered under his breath something about family theatrics before replying, "Sure. And I haven't eaten since morning."
Alexandria gave a small, knowing smile. "Then go on. Freshen up and have something light. You'll need your energy for the meeting."
Smith nodded and followed the maid to his room. The bathroom was cool and quiet. He ran a hand under cold water, splashed his face, and studied his reflection. Tired eyes, tense jaw, a controlled expression masking the storm of thoughts inside. A quick change into a fresh shirt and slacks followed, and he finally felt a small measure of readiness.
Downstairs in the kitchen, a simple tray had been laid out—fruit, eggs, and toast. He ate slowly, each bite grounding his mind. Alexandria checked in once before leaving.
Smith finished and set the tray aside. The weight of the upcoming meeting pressed against him again, but now with a small layer of preparation, he felt slightly more composed. He gave a short nod to Alexandria. "Alright. Let's do this."
She returned the nod with a faint smile. "After you, little brother."
Smith followed Alexandria through the grand hallway, noting the family echo of his footsteps on the polished floor under his shoes. The walls were lined with framed portraits of stern ancestors, all eyes seemingly tracking his steps. Smith could already feel the weight of the family gaze pressing down on him.
"You look tense," Alexandria said quietly, pausing at the top of the wide staircase. Her tone was warm, but her eyes sharp. "Remember, it's just protocol. They'll test you, yes, but they mean well, and you know how to handle them."
"I know," Smith replied. He adjusted his posture and ran a hand through his hair. "Protocol's always been your forte, not mine."
She gave a small, amused smile. "Perhaps. But you'll learn once you start managing the business."
They entered the sitting room together, where Theodore Wesson, their father, seated at the head of the long mahogany table, lifted his gaze. His face was calm but calculated, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Elizabeth, their mother, sat beside him, hands folded neatly, observing Smith with a quiet patience that always made him feel both grounded and scrutinized. Isabel lounged across from them, a faintly mocking expression on her lips.
"Ah, there's my son," Theodore said, rising slightly as Smith approached. "University life suits you, I hope. Or at least keeps you busy enough not to cause trouble."
Smith inclined his head, sliding into his usual seat. "It keeps me busy, yes. And focused... just like you have always wanted." His eyes flicked to Isabel, who arched a brow as if daring him to speak more. He ignored the challenge.
Elizabeth gave a small nod of approval. "We're glad you could make it today, Smith. These meetings... while formal... help keep the estate and our dealings in order. Your perspective is valuable."
Isabel leaned back, folding her arms. "Valuable, yes. But let's hope he hasn't let his idea about independence and freedom sabotage our family. We can't afford weak links."
Smith's gaze stayed neutral, though the barb was noted. He had felt that tension from Isabel since childhood—the perpetual need to prove himself, the constant reminder that independence was a luxury she never afforded him.
Alexandria poured him a glass of water from the sideboard. "Drink. You'll need it. Meeting starts soon."
The servants moved quietly in the background, arranging documents, clearing side tables, and maintaining the manor's precise order. Their movement and behavior reinforced the Wesson hierarchy. The subtle but omnipresent control the family wielded.
Finally, Theodore tapped a silver pen against the table, signaling the start. "Let's begin," he said. "Updates first. Smith, why don't you start with the city contracts?"
As Smith outlined the necessary points, fragments of yesterday's call floated through his mind—the distorted voice, the burner phone, the ticking time, how the unknown caller was waiting for his reply before the dominoes start to fall, depending on his answer.