Lucas Stratton woke before the alarm. He always did. The quiet discipline of routine had shaped him long before the billions, before the skyscraper offices and glossy headlines. Success, he believed, was just as much about consistency as brilliance.
He pushed back the crisp white sheets, swung his feet onto the hardwood, and sat for a moment, letting his body wake fully before the day consumed him. Then, like every morning, he dressed in running gear and stepped out into the cool Manhattan air. The streets were still half-asleep, but Lucas thrived in that stillness. His strides were steady, precise, carrying him along the river until his breathing fell into a rhythm that cleared his mind.
By the time he returned to his penthouse, sweat cooling against his skin, his day was already in motion. A black coffee sat steaming on the counter, prepared by the house staff, but he reached instead for the tin of sencha green tea, his ritual. Balanced. Clean. The taste grounded him in ways coffee never had.
As the kettle hissed, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and softened. Mom.
"Good morning," he answered, a faint smile touching his mouth as he cradled the phone to his ear.
"Good morning, darling," her warm voice came, touched with that slight Southern lilt that years in New York had not erased. Elizabeth Stratton, his mother, former ballet dancer turned philanthropist. His father, Richard Stratton, had built their fortune in global shipping before passing the torch to Lucas's generation. Old money. Old responsibilities.
"How are you, Mom?"
"Better if you would visit once in a while," she teased gently. "Do I need to remind you what week it is?"
Lucas exhaled, already knowing. "Your anniversary. I did not forget."
"You always say that," she scolded lightly. "And then you bury yourself in work. Lucas, your father and I do not need a grand gesture. We would just like to see you."
His chest tightened, a rare softness breaking through the steel. "I will try," he promised, though they both knew try in his language often meant unlikely.
Elizabeth's voice softened further. "Just do not lose yourself in all this. You are more than your company, Lucas. Remember that."
"I know," he murmured. And he did. At least, he tried to.
When the call ended, he lingered in the quiet. He sipped his tea slowly, flipping absently through the morning paper, eyes skimming headlines more out of habit than interest. His gaze caught briefly on a business article praising Stratton & Co.'s latest innovation, but he turned the page quickly. Success was not something he dwelled on. There was always more work to do.
By the time he glanced at the clock, the hour had slipped faster than expected. He showered, dressed sharply in charcoal gray, and knotted his tie with practiced efficiency. Another day. Another battlefield.
The Stratton & Co. lobby buzzed when he arrived. Lucas's presence had that effect. Conversations softened, postures straightened. He walked past the cluster of interns stationed near the open plan workstations, offering a polite but measured nod.
"Good morning. I trust you are all finding this a worthwhile experience so far?" His tone was even, courteous without slipping into warmth.
"Yes, sir," came the murmurs in reply.
But Damien, slick-haired and eager, stepped forward half a pace as if to seize his moment. "Absolutely, Mr. Stratton," he said with an extra brightness that bordered on performative. "It has been enlightening already."
Lucas's gaze flicked briefly to him, sharp, unreadable. "Good. Make sure it stays that way." With that, he moved on, his stride unbroken.
Lena, standing a little behind Chloe, kept her head down. She did not want to appear overeager, not after yesterday's embarrassment. But her chest swelled faintly at the simple fact that he had acknowledged them all.
Later that morning, she trailed him into her first real boardroom meeting. The table stretched long and polished, surrounded by directors and senior managers. Lena slid into her seat quietly, notebook open, pen poised. This time, she forced herself to stay grounded. No wandering daydreams. No dangerous fantasies.
Lucas began the meeting with the same precision he carried everywhere. Clear directives, sharp questions, eyes that missed nothing. Lena's hand flew across the page, her notes neat and exact, capturing every key point. She did not just write. She listened, dissected, connected the threads.
For once, she felt almost steady.
When someone stumbled over a presentation, Lucas corrected them, not harshly, but firmly, guiding them back on track. His leadership was exacting but fair. Lena found herself studying the way he commanded respect without raising his voice, the way even silence from him seemed to demand attention.
At one point, his gaze swept the table and lingered briefly on her notes. She caught the flicker of approval in his eyes before he looked away.
That single look carried her through the rest of the meeting.
At the end of the meeting, Lena's hand ached from writing, but her chest was light. She had not embarrassed herself. She had not drifted into fantasy. She had done the work, and she had done it well.