A Maxley Story

Chapter 8

Bradley's return home felt like stepping into a forgotten play, where the actors wore the same masks but delivered their lines without emotion. His father's irritation over his "twisted ankle" and black eye lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. Bradley knew the story hadn't gone over well. His dad had to explain to family members and colleagues at Upperworth Ventures—some of whom were more eager than they should be to see the company heir stumble—why Bradley wouldn't be starting his summer stint at the firm on time.

A pothole while jogging? It was weak, even Bradley could admit that. But he couldn't tell the truth. The crash, the pain, the humiliation—it was all too tangled up in things his dad wouldn't understand and didn't need to know.

The house was the same as it had always been—grand, imposing, and suffocating in a way that no amount of space could fix. Three floors of marble, oak, and old money elegance whispered of expectations Bradley had spent his life trying to ignore. The mansion sat tucked into one of the wealthiest enclaves in the suburbs of Chicago, where every lawn was manicured and every house looked like it had been plucked from a luxury magazine. The Uppercrust estate was no different. A long, tree-lined driveway wound through the property, willows hanging like sentinels on either side, leading to the front steps that had seen generations of polished shoes and tailored suits.

Inside, the grand staircase swept up in a graceful arc, leading to the upper floors where Bradley's room sat at the far end of a long, quiet hallway. The house had wings and corners that no one ever used, save for the occasional maid passing through or the groundskeeper slipping in from the garage apartment for a cup of coffee. It was too large for three people, but that had never stopped his father from filling it with the weight of his ambitions.

Bradley's first week at home was spent in a frustrating limbo of recovery. He kept his real injuries hidden, wincing only when no one was around to see. The bruises that still colored his ribs were a secret he guarded carefully, especially from his mother, Marilyn, who hugged him with an affection that stung more than he let on.

Her sharp, piercing blue eyes always seemed to see right through him, though recently, they had taken on a foggier, distracted quality that Bradley couldn't quite shake. Bradley had inherited those same eyes—the only feature he shared with his mother. When sober, Marilyn Uppercrust carried herself with an elegance that demanded attention, her high cheekbones and perfectly styled dark hair swept into a neat bun, giving her a regal and polished air. The sharpness of her features was offset only slightly by the delicate pearl earrings she wore daily, a signature of her classic, minimalist style. Her wardrobe was as precise as the rest of her: tailored suits, pencil skirts, and sleek heels that clicked with purpose wherever she went. However, in recent years, Bradley had become more and more acquainted with another, less refined version of his mother. The careless, distant, giggling version who always had a glass of wine in her hand.

Meanwhile, his father, Bradley Uppercrust Jr., with his neatly groomed mustache and perpetually severe expression, could have been his twin if not for the age difference and facial hair. Bradley had his father's square jawline, sharp nose, and the same air of expectation that seemed to follow them both. It was as if Bradley had been born to step directly into his father's shoes, a path laid out from the very beginning.

His dad, unsurprisingly, made little effort to accommodate his recovery. Bradley had been handed a copy of A Random Walk Down Wall Street before his bags were even unpacked.

"You'll need this," his father had said, the words less a suggestion and more a command. Bradley had heard of the book, even skimmed a summary online when his finance professor recommended it, but now he was expected to absorb it fully. His father's unspoken test hung in the air: there would be questions, and there had better be answers.