Jock Next Bed (BL)
Chapter 181: Heavy responsibility

Chapter 181: Heavy responsibility

Over the next two days, everything blurred together.

Meetings upon meetings. Numbers, charts, forecasts—Chris barely understood half of what was being said, but he was hanging in there.

An assistant was always with him. Sometimes three. Hovering beside him, whispering explanations, handing him documents, making sure he didn’t walk into a room completely clueless.

And yet, no matter how much they tried to prepare him, the reality of it all was suffocating.

He wasn’t just Chris anymore. He wasn’t just his father’s son.

He was the heir. And that meant he had to know what to say. The figures to display. The right way to sit, the proper way to shake hands, the careful balance between confidence and humility when meeting stakeholders.

He was exhausted.

This was what his parents did effortlessly. And what did he do? Spend the money. Because he was fortunate. A rich kid.

His office showers were quick. He hadn’t looked in a mirror in two days, but he didn’t need to—he felt like a mess. His body ached from sitting in one position too long, his head hurt from staring at endless reports, and his tie had become a noose he couldn’t quite loosen.

His mother wasn’t faring much better.

She had just as many meetings, just as much pressure—but somehow, she still looked composed. Poised. Like she had done this her whole life.

Chris envied that.

Because he still felt like he was drowning.

Chris had no idea what was going on in the world.

He hadn’t checked the news. He hadn’t seen his personal phone in days. He hadn’t even seen Wilson since that night.

They hadn’t gone home either. From the company to the hospital and back again—it was a cycle that never ended. He ate at the office. He slept at the office. Every time he thought there would be a break, something else demanded his attention.

One thing was receiving a spike in stocks. Another was keeping them from falling.

Because if there was even the smallest mistake, things wouldn’t just return to normal—they would crash.

Young people were rascals. They were stanning him now, hyping him up like he was some kind of Gen Z corporate rebel. But the moment they lost money? They would be the first to drag him through the mud. He understood the fickle nature of public opinion. He’d seen it firsthand. One moment, he was the rebellious heir, the Gen-Z icon. The next, he could be the incompetent fool who squandered his father’s legacy.

He felt the weight of that potential backlash, the fear of disappointing not only his family but also the countless people who had placed their faith in him.

And Chris?

Chris wasn’t sure if he could stop that from happening.

Chris stood before the line of doctors, his expression tight, his exhaustion barely hidden beneath the weight of his words.

"What we have is money. What you have is expertise. So do whatever it takes. Please."

His voice didn’t waver, but there was a desperation behind it, a quiet plea buried beneath the firm command.

His father still hadn’t woken up.

Five days. That’s what they had given them. If he woke up within that time, the worst would be averted, and he’d recover. But if not...

Chris clenched his jaw.

If not, then he would most likely be braindead.

It was already the third day.

His mother swallowed heavily beside him. She hadn’t cried since the night they came home from the press conference. But Chris could see it now—the fear in her eyes, the way her hands trembled before she folded them neatly in front of her, pressing them together as if holding herself together.

But Chris—Chris couldn’t just take that.

"There has to be more you can do."

The doctors exchanged glances, the weight of reality thick in the air.

Chris didn’t care. He didn’t want cautious optimism. He didn’t want statistics. He wanted results.

Chris felt a wave of despair wash over him, a sense of utter helplessness. He wasn’t a religious man, had never been one to seek solace in prayer. But now, in the face of this overwhelming fear, he found himself drawn to the small, empty parish within the hospital.

The hospital parish was nearly empty, dimly lit by soft candlelight. Chris sat in one of the wooden pews, hands pressed together, eyes closed. He wasn’t the type to pray. He never had been.

But right now, he didn’t know what else to do.

His heart felt too heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, fear, and the unbearable uncertainty of the next few days. He wanted to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to cry, but his body felt too tense to break.

A warm hand settled on his shoulder.

Chris turned, startled, and met his mother’s gaze.

She looked tired—God, she looked so tired—but she still smiled at him. A small, reassuring smile that made his chest tighten.

Without a word, she sat down beside him, her presence a silent comfort. They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft murmur of distant hospital noises.

"Do you think... do you think God will answer my prayers?" Chris asked, his voice barely a whisper.

His mother turned to him. "Why wouldn’t He?"

He swallowed, staring at his clasped hands. "People say God doesn’t listen to sinners."

She frowned slightly. "What sin are you talking about?"

Chris hesitated. His throat felt tight. He lowered his gaze and whispered, "I like boys." He could barely hear his own voice, but in the silence of the parish, it felt deafening. "God doesn’t like that, does He?"

"Chris..."

Chris cut in before he could hear what she had to say, turning slightly to face her, "Were you ever disappointed?" His voice was quiet, careful, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. "That I like boys... maybe a little more than girls?"

His mother exhaled softly, leaning back against the pew. "Honestly?" She glanced at him, then looked up toward the high ceiling, as if choosing her words carefully.