Henry's car cuts through the road at a speed far too high, tires biting into the asphalt with every turn.
His grip on the steering wheel is stiff, knuckles pale and tight, as if he is trying to outrun something behind him.
But it is not the road he is fleeing. It is himself, his own mind, his own memories ..that he is trying to leave behind.
And deep down, even as the car races forward, he knows it is useless. No matter how fast he drives, he cannot escape what is inside of him.
For what feels like an hour, he keeps going, his thoughts spiraling faster than the car, twisting and turning in every possible direction.
His chest tightens with the weight of it until he cannot take another second. With a sudden motion, he steps on the brakes, the car screeching as it jerks to a stop on the side of the road.
The force of it jolts his whole body, leaving his breath ragged, heavy, and unsteady.
He leans back against the seat, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He shuts his eyes, but it only makes everything worse.
His mind keeps pushing, forcing its way back to that one moment.
That stranger boy's lips brushing against his. Something so small, accidental even, and yet it had ripped everything open.
Henry had been doing fine, at least that is what he told himself.
He had buried everything deep, locked it away where it couldn't reach him anymore. He had promised himself he would never go back there.
And for years, he had been moving forward, step by step, holding his life together with sheer force.
But now, that simple accidental kiss has brought it all back.
His phone buzzes beside him, the sharp vibration breaking through his scattered thoughts.
The screen flashes with his secretary's name, but he doesn't answer. He stares at it until it fades into silence again, his body slick with sweat that gathers on his forehead and trickles down his neck.
His palms are damp, his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably.
With a sharp motion, he pulls off his suit jacket and throws it aside. The heat inside him doesn't fade.
He tugs at the buttons of his shirt, pulling it open one by one, exposing his chest to the air, but still.. nothing. His body keeps burning, his skin feverish, his mind louder than ever.
A curse rips from his mouth, low and furious. That familiar anger, the one he thought he had locked away years ago, stirs again.
His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
"You're in control," he whispers to himself, voice hoarse and strained. "Don't let your mind control you. You control your mind. You are in control. You are in control…"
He repeats it again and again, the words rough at first, then steady, forming a rhythm he clings to.
It is the same mantra he used to survive back then, the same one he has whispered countless times when everything threatened to break him apart.
When the noise in his mind refused to quiet. When the memories replayed no matter how hard he tried to shut them out.
Bit by bit, the storm eases. His chest begins to loosen, his breathing slows, his fists uncurl.
The heat inside him dims, leaving only the faint ache of exhaustion.
He opens his eyes slowly, his surroundings coming back into focus, like he is waking from a dream he didn't want to be in.
The road stretches out ahead, quiet and empty. For a moment, he feels as if he has forgotten where he is, forgotten what he was even doing.
He drags a hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat, then takes in a deep, heavy breath that fills his lungs.
Reaching for his phone, his fingers move quickly, transferring money straight into Riley's account.
The name appears on the screen... Riley Hale. For a second, his eyes linger on it, and something twists inside of him. He forces it down.
He types out a message. ~ Thank you for the help, but I don't think I'll be coming back as soon as I made it seem. So just leave my son with the guard at the gate, and then you can leave.
The moment the words are sent, he deletes Riley's number from his phone, erasing it like it never existed.
Shoving the device into his pocket, he buttons his shirt back up.
He slips his jacket over his shoulders again, pulling the mask of composure back into place.
Without another glance at the roadside, he starts the engine and drives toward his company.
The thought crosses his mind.. he hopes he hasn't missed the visitors. They are important, a big opportunity he has been working toward for years. He cannot let something so small, so stupid, ruin that.
It doesn't take long before the tall, gleaming building comes into view. His car slides into its reserved space, and as he steps out, the bold letters catch his eyes: H.S. Gold Design.
His empire.
His proof.
He strides inside, every step measured, every line of his face unreadable.
Employees greet him as he passes, their voices quick and careful, their heads bowed slightly.
But Henry doesn't respond. To him, their words are just noise. They look at him like he's untouchable, untouchably distant... and maybe he is.
At the elevator, the doors slide open to reveal people already inside. The moment they see him, they quickly step out, making room for him alone.
He never demanded it, not once, but it has become the unspoken rule. They fear him without a reason.
Maybe because he never smiles, never lets down his guard. Maybe because when mistakes happen, he does not forgive. He does not give second chances.
And maybe that is why his company has risen so quickly, surpassing competitors that have been standing for decades.
He doesn't play around when it comes to work. He promised himself long ago he would prove himself to everyone who ever looked down on him, everyone who spoke words meant to cut him small.
He's determined to make them choke on their own disbelief.
The elevator dings. He steps out. His secretary rushes toward him, nervous, words stumbling. "Sir, they left."
Just those words.
Henry doesn't reply. His face gives nothing away, but inside, his frustration grinds at him like glass.
He heads for his office without a word, sinking himself into work, burying himself under papers, projects, anything to cover up what he has lost.
The hours pass without him noticing, swallowed by work. By the time he lifts his head, the sky outside is dark, night already settled.
A thought of his son pierces through him, sharp enough to make him pause.
He picks up the phone and calls the guard. "Andrew, did the boy leave?" His voice is calm.
"Yes, sir," the guard answers on the other end. "A very long time ago. In the morning."
Henry exhales slowly. "How's Skye? Did you get him something to eat?"
There's hesitation before the guard speaks again. "Madam came back home before the boy who brought Skye left. So he must have left him with her."
Henry freezes for a second. He stands abruptly, "He met with her?" His voice sharpens. He presses his hand against the bridge of his nose, the frustration pounding at his temples. "Ugh… she must have thrown so many useless words at him."
The guard adds quickly, "And sir… I don't know what is happening, but Skye hasn't stopped crying inside the house since morning. It has been non-stop. Even now."
Henry doesn't reply. He just ends the call and grabs his keys. Within seconds, he is heading out.
Maybe Victoria was never the right choice after all.
He thinks as he drives into the night.