Page 22 of Under Construction

"What?!No!"

Too quick. Too loud.

"Aha! It is!" She claps her hands together, her diamond tennis bracelets jingling like victory bells. "Tell me everything!"she demands, her brilliant ruby red smile wide and brimming with mischief.

"There's nothingtotell!" Dennis protests in exasperation, but he’s laughing now, her enthusiasm infectious as always.

"What's so funny?"

They both turn to find Dennis’s father in the doorway, expression as stern as his wife's is warm.

"Nothing, honey." She floats across the marble floor in a whisper of silk, tucking herself against his side. His arm stays stiff but she kisses his cheek anyway, softening his edges like she always does. Her lipstick leaves a perfect red mark that she dabs away with practiced care. "Just mother-son gossip. Shall we move to the dining room? Everything's ready."

Dinner starts pleasantly enough. The first course arrives on gleaming plates. Dennis always dreads these dinners with his parents and promises each one will be his last. But then his mother starts talking and he remembers why he misses her—she fills the room with life, her hands dancing through the air as she speaks, her laugh brightening even the coldest corners of this massive house and warming up even his ice statue of a father.

Dennis asks about the family cats—particularly old Chairman Meow who's ruled the estate longer than he can remember. His mother launches into stories about the latest curtain casualties, while his father checks emails between bites. The clink of silver on china punctuated by the soft buzz of his father’s phone notifications fill the silence until:

"How's the sustainability project, darling?" his mother asks.

"It's—"

"Behind schedule," his father cuts in without looking up from his phone screen. "Over budget. And apparently includes assaulting employees now."

"Dennis Kim!" His mother's chopsticks clatter to her plate. "You didwhat?"

"He deserved it," Dennis mutters into his wine glass. Well, he shrugs to himself, at the time he did, anyway.

"This is what comes of coddling him," his father says, finally setting his phone aside. "All these... so-called progressive ideas."

"Oh, here we go." His mother's voice sharpens, taking on that familiar edge. "Because heaven forbid our son have original thoughts!"

"Original thoughts don't pay investors."

"No, they just change the world!"

"I built this company from scratch. While you encouraged his little art projects and sustainability dreams."

"And he'll take it further than you ever could! If you'd just open your eyes and see what he's creating—"

"Or bankrupt us with his experiments. Is that what you want? To watch everything I built crumble because he wants to play with bamboo?"

"Always so negative. Maybe if you supported him for once—"

Dennis catches the butler's eye as his parents' argument escalates. "Kill me now," he mouths.

The butler's lips twitch. "More wine, sir?"

"All of it."

Later that night, Dennis presses his palm to the biometric scanner, shoulders sagging as his apartment door finally slides open.

The blessed silence hits him like a wave—no more pointed comments about investors, no more maternal interrogations about his love life.

Never,everagain, he promises himself for the hundredth time, knowing full well he'll be back at that dinner table next month.

He collapses onto his couch, the leather cool against his face. Pulls his phone out of his back pocket with a groan.

So much effort. So little energy left. He checks his phone with the last of it.

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