Irvin's POV
I sat at my desk, thumbing through a pile of documents that couldn't bore me more.
My office—spacious, polished, packed with the most expensive furnishings available—felt more like a doctor's waiting area than somewhere I actually worked.
I hardly ever used it. I only showed up when absolutely forced to, like today, when some crucial meeting had dragged me into the building.
Most of the time, I didn't even bother appearing at all.
My father despised that.
Will Jenkin constantly reminded me how reckless it was, how I was throwing away my abilities, how I ought to be at the company every damn day.
Lecture, lecture, lecture.
I'd tuned him out ages ago.
It wasn't like I despised the work itself. I could handle it with my eyes closed if I chose to. The issue was him.
My father.
The man choked the life out of every room he entered.
And me? I had zero interest in breathing the same air, much less occupying the same building, with Will Jenkin any longer than required.
