The office was a cathedral of power.
Everything about it screamed permanence — the kind of permanence carved from money, influence, and the sheer force of one man's will. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretched behind the desk like the walls of a sanctuary, capturing the city skyline in a frame of glass. At dusk, the towers outside glowed gold, bleeding into the lavender haze of twilight, until they seemed less like buildings and more like monuments to ambition.
Inside, the air smelled of leather, paper, and the faint sharpness of polish. Not a book was out of place on the shelves. Not a painting hung askew. My father curated this room like he curated his image: nothing left to chance, everything arranged to dominate.
And I hated it.
"Sit down." His voice carried across the expanse of oak that separated us. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. My father's voice had never needed volume to command.
I stayed standing.
The chair across from his desk — black leather, perfectly angled to face him like a supplicant to a king — waited in silence. My legs buzzed with the restless energy that came from being cornered. Sitting meant conceding, accepting the conversation on his terms.
"I'm fine standing," I muttered.
His pen didn't stop moving. He signed a page, shifted it to one side, and moved to the next as if I were nothing more than another meeting on his calendar. The scratch of ink across paper was steady, efficient, merciless.
Then, finally, his hand stilled.
Dark eyes rose to meet mine. Piercing. Calculating. They had cut down rivals, seduced allies, bent entire industries into obedience. My father's gaze had always felt like a searchlight, burning away any shred of resistance until only compliance remained.
"You've missed two board meetings this week," he said. Calm. Controlled. Each word clipped with surgical precision. "Directors are beginning to question your commitment. Investors are whispering."
His brow furrowed the way it always did when someone disappointed him. "Do you think a company of this magnitude runs itself?"
I didn't answer immediately. My jaw ached from holding back the words, but they forced themselves out anyway.
"I didn't ask to run it."
His gaze sharpened, but he didn't flinch. He set down the pen with deliberate care, folding his hands on the desk as though I were a witness called to testify.
"You didn't ask," he said, his voice quieter now, but somehow heavier. "You were born into it. Into this family. Into this legacy. You are Alexander Hale's son. That means something. That means everything."
The weight of his words pressed on me like chains. He had spoken them my entire life. I'd been groomed to hear them, to believe them, to let them carve their shape into me.
But something inside me snapped.
"I don't want your legacy," I said, louder this time. My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "I don't want this empire. I don't want to be you!"
The words echoed in the cavernous room, bouncing off glass and wood.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between us.
His face didn't shift. Not anger, not surprise, just the kind of stillness that meant danger. The air grew colder.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked under his weight.
"You think you know better," he said. Not a question. A judgment. His voice lowered, smooth and sharp. "You think the world bends to your whims? I built this empire with nothing but my bare hands and a will stronger than steel. Without me, you'd have nothing. You'd be nothing."
I felt my throat tighten, but the words tore free anyway.
"I'd rather be nothing than your shadow."
His eyes flickered — for the briefest instant, something passed across his face. Pain? Hurt? Recognition? I'll never know. It was gone in a breath, replaced with the mask he wore better than any other.
"You'll regret saying that." His tone was flat, dismissive.
And just like that, I ceased to exist. He turned back to his papers, reclaiming his pen. I was no longer a son. I was an obstacle.
I stood there, fists clenched so tight my nails dug crescents into my palms. My chest heaved, breath shallow. I wanted to rip the papers from his hands, scatter them across the floor, shatter the windows until the city itself fell silent.
But I didn't.
Instead, I turned on my heel, the marble floor echoing each step like a drumbeat.
The hallway outside stretched long and cold, portraits of men in suits glaring down at me with their oil-painted superiority. His ancestors. My ancestors. Their eyes followed me, demanding obedience even in silence.
I didn't stop until I reached the elevator.
The city greeted me like a beast with a thousand shining eyes.
As the elevator descended, the skyline blurred in the glass walls, towers glowing against the night. Cars streamed below like veins of light, the endless pulse of a machine that never slept.
My reflection stared back at me.
The same jawline. The same piercing eyes. His face in mine, carved by blood and bone. I could feel him even now, etched into my DNA.
Maybe I will regret it, I thought. But at least it's mine to regret.
The doors slid open with a chime. Cold night air rushed in, sharp and clean, carrying the faint smell of rain. For the first time all day, I could breathe.
But the words lingered.
You'll regret it. You'll have nothing without me.
What if he was right?
What if I never escaped his shadow?
I didn't know then that fate had already begun its slow, merciless turn.
That within days, his voice would fall silent forever.
And the weight he carried — the empire, the power, the expectations — would fall onto me like a mountain.