The sterile white of the hospital lingered with him even after he stepped outside. The faint scent of disinfectant clung to his clothes, sharp and unwelcome.
The doctor's words echoed in his ears.
"Your liver shows signs of strain. Months -no maybe years of excessive drinking don't fade overnight. If you continue this way, it won't be just nausea or headaches—you'll be gambling with your life. Cut the alcohol completely, change your diet, and reduce stress, or you may not last another decade without serious complications."
The words weren't his punishment. They were Lucian Blackwell's. But he was the one who had to bear them now.
He walked down the hospital steps, the city buzzing with its usual rhythm. Every honk, every voice, every step seemed louder than before, as if the world was reminding him it would keep moving—with or without him.
Sliding into the back seat of the car waiting at the curb, he leaned his head against the leather. His fingers tapped against his thigh, restless, but his resolve tightened.
He wasn't just battling the disdain of his family, or the ridicule of society. His own body had become the battlefield.
"Sir?" the driver asked softly, glancing in the mirror. "To the company?"
Lucian opened his eyes, the Blackwell building already rising in his mind. For years, this was the place where he had squandered his chances, where whispers followed him through polished halls. Clara's cutting words from breakfast still rang clear—Then prove it.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "Take me there."
---
The car pulled up before the Blackwell headquarters, its steel and glass exterior gleaming under the sun. Lucian adjusted his tie before stepping out, ignoring the rush of unease coiling in his gut.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with the movement of employees. Shoes clicked against polished floors, voices murmured in professional cadence. Yet, as he walked through, the rhythm faltered.
Conversations dipped into whispers. A receptionist who once would have greeted him with a bright smile now offered only a stiff nod before lowering her gaze. Two junior executives turned sharply, pretending to discuss documents when his shadow fell over them.
Lucian's stride never faltered, but he caught every flicker of avoidance, every pointed glance exchanged when they thought he wouldn't notice.
He could almost hear their thoughts.
There he is. The Blackwell disgrace.
How long before he screws up again?
Why is he even still here?
His hand curled into a fist at his side, but he forced his expression blank. He had walked through fire last night, and the morning after, and in the doctor's office. Compared to that, whispers were nothing.
Still, the sting settled deep. He carried it with him into the elevator, where even the mirrored walls seemed to reflect judgment.
As the doors slid shut, he exhaled slowly.
This was the empire he had once sought to control at any cost. Now, it was a place where even the lowest employee believed themselves above him.
And perhaps they were right.
For now.