THE FIFTY YEAR BARGAIN

CHAPTER 1

​Michael Blackwood adjusted his collar, though he knew the fabric wasn't the problem. His clothe was a dull gray that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Across the long ceramic table, his family sat enveloped in cash and confidence. His father, Richard Blackwood, sat on a high chair, his silver hair immaculately groomed, his heavy golden signet ring clinking against his wine glass every time he emphasized a point about his latest commercial acquisition.

​To Richard's right sat Marcus, Michael's older brother, wearing a custom double-breasted jacket that seemed designed specifically to draw attention to his broad shoulders and effortless authority. Marcus had just closed a multi-million-dollar contract for the family firm.

​Then there was Michael, a twenty-five year old, working a dead-end logistics job that barely covered his rent, sitting at the far end of the table.

​"The real trick with the harbor expansion," Marcus was saying, his voice smooth and untroubled.

​"A good businessman knows people, Marcus," Richard said, taking a slow sip of beer. "A weak man waits for permission. Remember that." They smiled.

​Richard's gaze drifted down the table, until it landed squarely on Michael. The conversation around the table stopped immediately.

​"Michael," his father said, his voice heavy, flat. "You've been remarkably quiet tonight. How are things at your end? before i forget, what is the name of that little shipping firm again?"

​"Vanguard Logistics," Michael said softly. He kept his hands flat on his lap, beneath the table, out of sight.

​"Right. Vanguard." Richard set his glass down with a dull thud. "And have they promoted you yet? Or are you still typing up manifest spreadsheets for two dollars?"

​A soft chuckle rippled down the table from Marcus's side. Michael felt the heat burn up his neck, burning behind his ears, but he didn't look down. He couldn't let them see him see his pain.

​"I'm managing the regional freight schedules now," Michael said, striving for a tone that sounded steady, grounded, real. "It's a stable position. I'm learning the supply chain from the bottom up."

​"The bottom is where you've been sitting for three years," Richard replied, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "You are twenty-five years old, Michael, When Marcus was your age, he was already running our northern branch. You sit in a cubicle, earning just enough to pay for a cheap apartment, wearing clothes that look like they came out of a dustbin. You carry the Blackwood name, but you live like a spectator in your own life."

​The dining room went dead quiet. Even the waiter standing by the sideboard froze, staring at his shoes, and laughing quietly at Michael.

​"Father," Michael began, the word tasting like ash.

​"Don't 'Father' me," Richard cut in, raising a hand. "I gave you the same education, the same access, the same opportunities as your brother. Marcus took them and built something. You took them and complained that the work was too hard, the hours too long, the expectations too high. You lack ambition, Michael, you are a complete embarrassment to this family."

​Michael felt his world shattered. It wasn't anger yet it was the hollow ache of a truth he had tried to deny for years. His father didn't just dislike his choices, he despised his existence.

​Marcus didn't speak up. His silence was louder insult than any insult Richard could throw.

​Michael took a slow, deep breath through his nose. He looked at his father, taking in the harsh lines, then he looked at his brother, who wasn't even trying to defend him.

Slowly and deliberately Michael folded his old clothes, and placed it beside him, he pushed the back chair quietly and quietly stood up​ slowly.

"Where do you think you're going?" Richard demanded, his eyebrows knitting together in sudden irritation. "We haven't finished dinner."

​"I have," Michael said. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried across the quiet room with absolute clarity.

​"If you walk out that door tonight," Richard said, his tone turning razor-sharp, "don't bother coming back for the holidays. Don't call Marcus for a favor when your little logistics job develops problems. As far as I am concerned, I have only one son."

Michael stared at the man who had raised him, searching for a single trace of hesitation, a flicker of regret. There was none. Only cold, authoritative.

​"I won't be calling, Father," Michael said.

​He turned his back on them, tears were about to drop from his eyes, but he held it as a man he was. Nowadays you need money to become a member of your own family, a man without money is already a Nobody. He said to himself as he walked out, his shoes making a quiet, rhythmic click against the marble floor.

​Outside, rain was falling, Michael pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, but the cold soaked through the thin fabric instantly. ​He stood at a corner, watching the sleek black town cars carrying men who looked just like his father and brother. Confident, wealthy, untouchable. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his knuckles white, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

​He didn't have money. He didn't have a high-status career, he was done waiting for their approval, and he never wants to be disappointed again by them again.

​One way or another, he was going to change his life. His phone buzzed sharply. He pulled it out with cold, trembling fingers. A text from Vanessa lit up the dark screen: Come over now. We need to talk.

Michael stared at her name, his heart hammering against his ribs in the freezing rain. In a world that had completely turned its back on him, she was the only one he had left, he flagged down a yellow cab, it was almost late in the night, but he still had to see Vanessa. He pulled the heavy door open, and stepped straight into the cab.

Let me see what Vanessa has to say, he said to himself as the cab moved