Philip sat behind his large desk at Carson Textiles, the morning sun glinting off the polished wood. He stared out the tall window at the bustling street below, but he wasn't seeing the carriages or the people.
His mind was still trapped in the drawing room of the Carson mansion, replaying the conversation from the day before. Delia's words, so full of a quiet, infuriating confidence, still echoed in his head.
"There's no rule that says only family members get to be the ones to run the family…"
He let out a short, bitter chuckle, the sound sharp in the quiet of his study. "Who does she think she is?" he said aloud to the empty room. He picked up a heavy silver pen and tapped it rhythmically against a stack of papers, the sharp clicks a counterpoint to his agitated thoughts. To him, her words were not a sensible approach to business; they were an insult to his very existence, to his bloodline, to the natural order of things.
