Alexander's fingers hovered over the phone screen as he weighed his response to Sofia's message. At last, he typed:
Meet me at the office at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Come prepared to discuss the details.
As he hit send, anticipation stirred in his chest. He was curious—how would Sofia approach the integration plan, and how would she navigate the complexities of his empire?
That night, sleep refused him.
Insomnia had been his constant shadow since childhood. Remedies, techniques, medications—none had lasted. Some nights he managed a few hours; tonight, he wasn't so lucky.
He lay in bed, eyes wide, staring into the dark. The clock glowed: 2:47 a.m. Then 3:15 a.m. His sheets twisted around him as if binding him in place.
At last he rose, padding barefoot to the window. The city lights glittered below, stars trapped under glass. The silence pressed in, heavy, almost hostile. Once—just for an instant—he thought he heard footsteps in the hall. But the corridor outside was empty.
Frustration gnawed at him. He needed rest, yet his mind buzzed with restless energy. What would it be like, he wondered, to wake refreshed, to live without this constant edge of exhaustion?
By dawn, relief came only because the night had ended. He collapsed on the couch, snatched an hour of shallow sleep, and forced himself up.
Morning ritual steadied him. A workout in the private gym, a cold shower, the armor of his bespoke three-piece suit. As he adjusted his cufflinks, the gold wings catching the light, he studied his reflection. The mask was in place: power, control, composure. No one would see the cracks.
Downstairs, Reginald had laid out breakfast. Alexander ate quickly, his mind already on the day ahead. Outside, Ryan and his security team waited in formation.
This morning, he chose the Aston Martin DBS Superleggera. The V12 roared to life, and the convoy swept into traffic, the Range Rover escort close behind. Luxury and vigilance, rolling in tandem.
Gray Tower rose against the skyline, glass and steel twisted into a landmark. Inside his office, floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in light. It was sleek, minimalist—everything meant to project strength.
The phone rang.
"Hello, Mother."
"Alexander, darling," her voice was firm but coaxing, "come home this weekend. Your father and I worry. The Richardsons will be there. Emily will be there."
His jaw tightened. "I don't think so. I'm busy."
Her tone sharpened. "You're twenty-four, Alexander. It's time you settled down. Emily comes from a good family. She'll be perfect for you."
"I've told you before—I can handle my own life. I don't need you arranging my relationships. If Father wants to see me, he can call."
Silence stretched. Then her voice shifted, smooth with warning:"Don't be stubborn. You're part of this family, and families have obligations. If you refuse me, I can make things… difficult."
His grip tightened around the phone. For a moment he considered hanging up. But the old weight pressed down—the years of her persistence, her power to pull strings even in his empire.
"Fine," he said at last, his tone flat. "I'll be there. But don't expect me to play along."
"Wonderful, darling. Seven sharp. And do try to make a good impression."
When the call ended, Alexander's reflection in the window stared back at him, unreadable. For all his victories, his mother still knew how to corner him.
Becky, his assistant, appeared at the door. "The meeting's about to begin."
The boardroom buzzed with anticipation. Around the polished table sat Sofia, her lawyer Rachel, and Alexander's board: Harrison Grant, Victoria Lee, Lucas Brooks.
The proposal lay open before them. Sofia's voice carried confidence. "I think we should allocate fifty million for the project."
Alexander considered, then leaned forward. "Sixty. We'll need a buffer. I won't gamble Gray Innovations on optimism."
Sofia's eyes flickered—challenge and intrigue mingled. She signaled Rachel to run numbers. Meanwhile, Harrison cleared his throat, skepticism dripping from every syllable.
"This is reckless, Alexander. Too much risk."
Alexander's gaze turned cold. "We've done our due diligence. The numbers make sense. If you lack the stomach for ambition, Harrison, you're welcome to step aside."
The older man reddened but stayed silent.
Rachel whispered to Sofia, who looked back at Alexander with a measured smile. "Based on our calculations, sixty-five million is possible, though ambitious. Thirty for marketing, twenty-five for R&D, ten for contingencies."
The debate tightened, until compromise settled at fifty-five million. Enough to proceed.
Victoria broke the silence, her tone edged with condescension. "Perhaps we should consider other approaches."
Alexander leaned back, unblinking. "I've made my decision. I expect support from this board. Further debate ends here."
The room stilled. Sofia's gaze lingered on him, sharp as glass. Admiration? Or calculation?
As the meeting closed, she rose gracefully. "Impressive, Alexander. I see why they call you the Gray Empire's heir apparent."
He caught the faintest curve of her lips before she turned away. For a moment, he wondered—was it respect in her eyes, or the thrill of a rival spotting a weakness?