Jock Next Bed (BL)
Chapter 178: Press conference (1)

Chapter 178: Press conference (1)

The conference room was massive, packed with reporters, flashing cameras, and the low hum of hushed conversations. Chris sat beside his mother at the long table, microphones set up in front of them.

His mother was the picture of composure—her back straight, hands neatly folded, her expression unreadable. She looked untouchable, completely in control. But Chris could see it. The faint tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers twitched slightly against the table.

The PR team began, their voices steady and practiced as they delivered the official statement:

"Chairmam Owen remains in critical but stable condition. The company will continue operations as usual under the current board and executive leadership..."

Chris barely heard them. He should have been paying attention, but all he could feel was the weight of the room pressing down on him. The reporters were staring, waiting.

Their curiosity was razor-sharp, cutting into him even before they spoke.

And then, the questions began, a relentless barrage that echoed through the room.

"Mrs. Owen, how is your husband’s condition? Will he be stepping down permanently?"

"Mrs. Owen, can you give us an update on your husband’s condition? Is there a timeline for his recovery?"

"Mrs. Owen, will this impact the company’s upcoming projects?"

"Mrs. Owen, what steps are being taken to ensure stability during this transition?"

The questions continued, each one a sharp jab, targeting his mother, probing for weaknesses. Chris watched as she fielded each inquiry with practiced ease, her voice calm and measured. But he saw the subtle tightening of her jaw, the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. The fear in her breath.

Mrs. Owen this. Mrs. Owen that.

Finally, she interrupted, her voice cutting through the din. "I am here as a director of this company, not solely as Mr. Owen’s wife. Please keep your questions relevant."

Chris knew the headlines would be brutal: Ice Queen Director Ignores Husband’s Condition. The media had a talent for twisting words, for finding the dark undercurrent in every situation.

Then, the focus shifted. The reporters turned their attention to him, their questions sharper, more personal, like they had been waiting for this moment.

He knew it was coming, but the sheer force of it still caught him off guard.

Some questions were phrased carefully, polite on the surface but dripping with skepticism. Others didn’t bother with pretenses.

"Do you think you can handle your father’s business?"

"At your age, do you feel you possess the necessary experience to lead such a large corporation?"

"How do you plan to manage the company’s ongoing crisis?"

The questions kept coming, faster than he could process. He had no answers. Even if he had time to think, he doubted he’d have any answers.

Just a few hours ago, his major problem was fighting for Sky’s affection. That was the only thing which had consumed him.

And now...

Chris felt a wave of panic wash over him. He was out of his depth, a novice thrown into the lion’s den. He was not like his mother.

The questions grew more invasive, more personal.

"There are rumors circulating about your... past. Allegations of fights in high school, wild parties..."

"Were drugs involved in these parties?"

"There are also speculations about your sexual orientation. Are you heterosexual or not?"

"Have you had multiple sexual partners?"

"Are you gay?"

"Why are you gay?"

"You’ve also been linked to street racing. Do you believe such reckless behavior is appropriate for a company leader?"

Chris’s palms were slick with sweat. He wanted to loosen his tie. It was choking him. It felt like a noose around his neck. The flashing lights and the relentless questions were suffocating. Even his mother’s composure began to fray.

She raised her hand, her voice firm.

"Stick to the matter at hand," she cut in sharply, her voice edged with warning. "These baseless rumors have no place here."

Under the table, she gripped his hand, her fingers squeezing tightly. She was assuring him. That she was there. And she would protect him.

While he clung to that gesture, it made it really sink how useless he was.

Even at this age, he was still being babied.

Wilson had told him to be tough so his mother wouldn’t worry. But what was he doing?

And then—

Came the question that made his breath catch in his throat.

"It is said that you received a scholarship for your studies. While your family own universities, you chose a rather low ranking and unknown university to study. Was that simply for fun?"

"Did your family influence your admission?"

"Did you steal someone else’s spot?"

The last question sent a bolt of ice through his chest.

He heard his mother inhale sharply. And then—

"I WILL NOT LET YOU INSULT MY SON!"

The room fell silent, the reporters momentarily stunned by her outburst.

Chris stared at his mother.

She had broken character.

For the first time since they walked into this room, she wasn’t a director. She wasn’t the calculating, poised businesswoman. She was his mother.

Chris could hear his own pulse in his ears.

He looked up, his gaze meeting the reporters’ eyes. He saw the hunger in their faces, the eagerness to tear him apart. They were making his father’s collapse into a spectacle.

And him? They were treating him like a goddamn scandal instead of a person.

His fingers curled into fists under the table. His free hand still gripped his mother’s tightly.

He felt a surge of anger, a burning rage that pushed aside the fear.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered.

The microphones picked it up.

His mother went rigid.

The reporters froze.

A hush fell over the room.

The reporters had expected many things—maybe a carefully crafted response, maybe stammering, maybe even silence. But they hadn’t expected that.

Chris took a slow, deliberate breath. Then he lifted his head and met their gazes—unflinching.

The air in the conference room had shifted.

Chris felt the tension in his mother’s grip, but he didn’t let go.

"You’re asking me if I stole my spot?" His voice was even, but there was an underlying sharpness to it. "If I somehow tricked my way in, even though I earned my place?"

The reporters hesitated, but Chris wasn’t done.

"That’s funny. Because I don’t remember any of you being there when I spent nights studying. I don’t remember any of you writing my essays or sitting in front of the camera to have an interview."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Maybe he should stop. Maybe he should play it safe.

He was using his emotions. Just as Father used to joke and say businesspeople do not use emotion. They use their heads and wits. And numbers. Never emotions.

But something in him snapped. Maybe it was because it was the only thing he held onto dearly, believing he had ever achieved. Of course, he played sports in middle and high school and won awards, but those were different. He wanted to protect this.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "why do you care so much about whether or not I deserved it?" His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "If my name was just Christopher Owen, if I wasn’t the heir of this company, would you still be asking me that? Or would you just assume I got in because I was good enough?"

Silence.

His mother squeezed his hand again. This time, it wasn’t to comfort him. It was a warning. Enough.

Chris exhaled, reigning himself back in. "I didn’t choose to be born into this family," he said, his voice quieter but still firm. "But I did choose to work hard for my future. And whether or not you believe that is not my problem."

Another question came, hesitant, careful. "So you’re saying there was no influence?"

Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second.

And in that moment, he realized something that made his heart stop.

He didn’t know.

His jaw clenched.

He wanted to say no. To say he had earned it fairly. But could he?

For the first time, he began to doubt himself. He wanted to look at his mother, but he didn’t.

He just had to push forward now.

Chris let go of his mother’s hand. He sat up straighter, placing both hands flat on the table, his fingers pressing into the surface.

The room, already tense, became suffocatingly silent.

He let the moment stretch, let them all feel the weight of it. And then, with a slow inhale, he spoke.

"My father—the chairman—collapsed a few hours ago," he said, his voice eerily calm. "He is currently in the hospital." His fingers curled slightly. "And yet, here we are. His wife is here. His son is here. Instead of asking about what actually matters—" He exhaled sharply. "You’re asking me whether I threw parties in high school. Whether I fought."

He laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. "Are you all fucking serious?"

The reporters shifted. Some had the decency to look uncomfortable. Others raised their pens, their recorders, waiting.

He heard his mother inhale deeply. That should have been his cue to stop.

But no.

They were all annoying idiots. And they needed to learn their place.