CHAPTER 28: AUSTERLITZ — Part 1
"Let's begin with something simple," Dr. Helen said. "Going around the circle. Tell me one true thing about yourself. Something you don't usually share."
The room was too quiet. Too still. Like the air before a storm.
Connor went first. "I'm fifty-one years old and I still care what my father thinks about me. Even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it doesn't matter."
Honest. Pathetic. Ignored.
Logan snorted. Didn't even try to hide it.
Dr. Helen wrote something down. "Thank you, Connor. That takes courage." She looked at Shiv. "Would you like to go next?"
Shiv uncrossed and recrossed her legs. Perfect political posture. "I'm terrified of being underestimated. So I overcompensate. Constantly. To the point where I don't know who I actually am versus who I'm performing."
Surface honesty. Real enough to pass scrutiny. Calculated enough to maintain control.
Dr. Helen nodded. "And that performance—does it feel sustainable?"
"Nothing about this family is sustainable. We just maintain it anyway."
Kendall was next. He stared at the floor. "I... I want to be good enough. For the company. For Dad. For myself. But I don't think I know how."
The vulnerability was real. Too real. I felt it through the Empathy Engine—raw, bleeding need for approval.
Logan's surface thoughts were loud: Pathetic. Can't even fake strength.
Dr. Helen's voice was gentle. "That's honest, Kendall. Thank you."
Then she looked at me. "Roman?"
Every eye in the room turned.
I could perform. Could deflect with a joke. Could give them surface-level bullshit about wanting to contribute more or whatever corporate speak fit the moment.
But Kendall had been genuine. And it had made him vulnerable.
"I want to be better than I was," I said carefully. "At everything. Work. Family. Being a person. I spent a long time being the joke. The crude one. The one who didn't matter. I don't want to be that anymore."
True. Not the whole truth, but true enough.
Dr. Helen studied me. "And what changed? What made you want to be different?"
"Almost dying tends to clarify priorities."
Logan's grunt could've meant anything. The Empathy Engine caught fragments: Still performing. But different performance. Interesting.
Dr. Helen moved on to Logan. "And you?"
"I don't do therapy," Logan said flatly.
"You're here."
"Because the board demanded it. Doesn't mean I participate in this touchy-feely bullshit."
"Logan, the point of this—"
"I know the point. Get us to cry and hug and blame our parents. I'm past that. My children need to grow spines, not wallow in feelings."
Connor leaned forward. "That's exactly the problem. You dismiss everything we—"
"I dismiss weakness. There's a difference."
"Wanting to be heard isn't weakness!"
"It is if you whine about it instead of earning it."
Dr. Helen tried to regain control. "Let's take a step back. Connor, you feel dismissed. Logan, you feel Connor needs to prove himself. Can we explore—"
"Nothing to explore," Logan said. "Connor runs a ranch. Barely profitable. Wastes money on vanity political projects. Why would I take him seriously?"
Connor's face flushed. "Because I'm your son."
"So? You think that earns automatic respect?"
"I think it earns basic decency!"
Shiv spoke up, voice calm and cutting. "Connor, maybe if your ideas were actually viable instead of fantasy projects—"
"Don't start, Shiv."
"I'm just saying. You want Dad to listen? Present something worth listening to."
Connor turned on her. "At least I have actual beliefs. You just calculate what position benefits you most."
"That's called strategy. You should try it."
"Children," Dr. Helen said firmly. "This isn't productive. We're supposed to—"
"Fuck productive," Kendall said suddenly. "This is what we do. Fight. Tear each other down. Compete for scraps of Dad's approval while he watches like it's entertainment."
The room went very still.
Logan's eyes narrowed. "You want to talk about scraps?"
"I want to talk about how you've spent thirty years pitting us against each other. Making us prove ourselves. And no matter what we do, it's never enough."
"Because you've never been enough," Logan said. Cold. Brutal. "You had every advantage. Every opportunity. And you're still desperately trying to convince me you can run this company when you can barely run yourself."
I felt Kendall flinch through the Empathy Engine. The words landed like physical blows.
"Logan," Dr. Helen tried. "That's not—"
"Not what? Not true? He had the interim CEO position. Did nothing with it except almost buy a trash company that Roman saved him from. That's leadership?"
"I held the company steady—"
"You held the fort. Barely. That's not vision. That's not strength. That's a caretaker keeping the seat warm."
Kendall's hands clenched. His whole body was tense. Fighting tears or rage or both.
"You want to know what I really think about you leading this company?" Logan leaned forward. "I think you're soft. I think you second-guess every decision. I think you care more about being liked than being respected. I think the pressure would destroy you."
"Then why did you make me interim CEO?"
"Because I needed someone. And you were there." Logan's voice was almost bored now. Dismissive. "But that doesn't mean you're the answer. You're just... temporary."
The Empathy Engine showed me Kendall's internal collapse. The desperate hope crumbling. The worthlessness flooding in.
He's right. He's always been right. I'm not good enough. Never was. Never will be—
My own body wanted to flinch. Wanted to curl inward. Roman's childhood memories of similar moments—Logan's contempt, the cage of not being enough, the absolute certainty that love was conditional and the conditions were impossible.
Trauma Lock activated. Hard. Contained the response. Kept me functional.
But under the table, my hand moved. Just slightly. Toward Kendall. Wanting to offer something. Comfort. Solidarity. Anything.
I stopped myself. Couldn't. Would expose too much. Would make me vulnerable too.
So I sat there. Watching my brother be destroyed. Doing nothing.
Dr. Helen was speaking. Trying to salvage something. Talking about communication styles and emotional awareness and constructive feedback.
No one was listening.
Logan had drawn blood. The therapy session was over in all but name. Now it was just watching the wound bleed.
Kendall stared at the floor. Shiv looked uncomfortable. Connor was silent—probably relieved the target wasn't him.
And Logan sat back. Satisfied. Like he'd accomplished something.
The Empathy Engine caught his surface thought: Truth hurts. But truth is necessary. Make them strong or break them trying.
He believed it. Actually believed that destruction was development.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong. That breaking people didn't make them stronger. That love shouldn't require proving.
But I was Roman Roy. And Roman Roy didn't challenge Logan directly. Not about family. Not about feelings.
So I stayed quiet.
And hated myself for it.
Dr. Helen called for a break. "I think we need to pause. Process. Reconvene in twenty minutes."
People stood. Filed out. Kendall moved fast. Out the door before anyone could stop him.
I started to follow.
Logan's voice stopped me. "Roman. Stay."
Everyone else left. The door closed.
Just me and Logan in the therapy room.
He studied me. Those calculating eyes that missed nothing.
"You were quiet," he said.
"You were talking."
"Smart. Knowing when to shut up." He leaned back. "But I noticed something. During that." He gestured at Kendall's empty chair. "You flinched. Just a little. Like you felt it."
My stomach tightened. "Felt what?"
"What I said to Kendall. Like it hurt you too."
Careful. Very careful.
"He's my brother," I said evenly. "It wasn't pleasant to watch."
"No. It wasn't pleasant. It was necessary." Logan stood. Walked closer. "But you. Suddenly everyone thinks you're something. The hostage situation. The competence. The calm under pressure."
Here it was. The real test.
"I was there," I said. "I handled it. That's what happened."
"Or you got lucky. Talked to some losers who wanted to feel important. That's not leadership. That's... what? Empathy?"
He said it like a disease.
"It's understanding people," I replied. Kept my voice level. "Finding what they need. Giving it to them so everyone walks away alive. If that's not leadership, I don't know what is."
Logan's eyes narrowed. "You challenging me?"
"I'm stating facts."
Silence. Long. Testing.
Then Logan smiled. Thin. Sharp. "Interesting."
He walked to the door. Paused. "You've changed, Roman. I haven't decided if that's good yet. But it's definitely interesting."
He left.
I sat alone in the therapy room.
My hands were shaking. Just slightly. The calm had been performed. Inside, Trauma Lock was working overtime.
But I'd done it. Faced Logan's challenge. Didn't crumble.
And somehow, that felt like winning.
Even if the cost was watching Kendall break.
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