The library smelled faintly of old leather and dust, a world away from the laughter and popcorn of the Queens theater. The shelves rose so high they seemed to scrape the ceiling, rows upon rows of spines embossed in gold. Ethan sat hunched at a long oak table, staring at a spread of papers that looked less like business reports and more like some magician's curse scrawled in ink and numbers.
The lamplight cast warm pools across the surface, illuminating his frown as though the very weight of the Arden empire had collapsed onto his shoulders.
Walter stood beside the mantel, straight as a ruler, pointer tucked neatly behind his back. His polished shoes clicked faintly against the marble floor as he shifted. His voice, calm but commanding, carried the same tone he might once have used to lecture Adrian as a boy.
"The Arden Group," Walter began, each syllable heavy, "was not built overnight. It stands on three pillars. Say them with me."
Ethan blinked down at the page. His fingers drummed against the polished wood as though buying time. "Uh… real estate… energy… and…" He tapped the paper with exaggerated thought. "…influence?"
Walter inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Again. Louder."
Ethan sat up straighter, drawing in a deep breath as though preparing for the stage. "Real estate. Energy. Influence." His voice carried through the cavernous room, sounding far more confident than he felt.
Walter began pacing, each step measured and deliberate, the pointer tucked behind him like a general's baton. "Good. You must understand, Ethan—those three words are not mere categories. They are power. They are what keeps the Arden name above the rest."
Ethan exhaled slowly, slouching back into the chair. His fingers toyed with the corner of the paper, folding it into a tiny triangle before Walter's raised brow forced him to smooth it out again. "You know, when I was in Queens, the biggest thing I worried about was making sure my shoelaces came untied at the right moment. Timing was everything." He rubbed his face with both hands, muffling his voice. "Here, it feels like every second I'm just… drowning."
The admission slipped from him more honestly than he intended. The grandeur of the room, the weight of the name he was meant to wear—it all pressed on his chest like a stone.
For the first time, Walter's expression softened, the sharp edges of his demeanor easing for a heartbeat. "It is not expected that you learn everything in a day. Adrian himself did not. But you must appear as if you already know. That is the art of survival in this family."
The words carried more than instruction—they carried warning.
The grandfather clock ticked, steady and unrelenting. Its hands inched forward as if mocking Ethan's faltering grasp of the empire he was supposed to embody. He leaned back, staring up at the gilded ceiling, his mind drifting to Aunt Lydia's cramped kitchen, the smell of fried onions, Marcus teasing him for spilling soda on the couch. That world had been messy, small, but real. This world? It was sharp edges and cold marble, a stage where even breathing wrong could draw blood.
"And what if I mess it up?" Ethan asked quietly, almost to himself. His hand clenched the pen lying on the table, his knuckles whitening. "What if Victor notices I don't belong?"
Walter's reply came without hesitation, quiet but firm. "Then it will not only be you who suffers the consequences."
The words landed like a gavel, silencing Ethan more effectively than any scolding could. His stomach twisted. This wasn't just about him—it was about Adrian's kingdom, about people he had never met, about families who depended on decisions made in rooms like this one.
He forced himself upright again, pen in hand, the pages no longer looking like curses but like weapons he had to learn to wield. His voice was low but steady as he repeated: "Real estate. Energy. Influence."
The words felt foreign, clumsy on his tongue, but he repeated them again. And again. Until the rhythm of them beat in time with the ticking clock.
Walter watched him, arms folded, his expression unreadable. But when Ethan glanced up, breath short and brow furrowed in concentration, the older man gave the faintest nod of approval. He turned toward the window, hiding the flicker of something uncharacteristic—something dangerously close to hope.