-Ace-
I don't believe in noise. Not the kind that fills rooms and crowds and conversations with the illusion of connection. The kind of noise most people mistake for life. My world operates in silence—sharp, unyielding, deliberate silence.
The kind that demands obedience. The kind that builds empires.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of my office, watching the morning fog slide off the clouds. Below, the city crawled with lives I neither envied nor acknowledged. People moved like ants, predictable in their chaos. Driven by emotion. Ruled by need.
Weakness in a tailored suit. I don't run my empire on need. I run it on control.
Behind me, the faint click of heels on marble echoed—my assistant, June. On time. She always was. She wouldn't dare be otherwise.
"Your nine o'clock is waiting in the boardroom," she said quietly, no inflection in her voice. I trained her that way. "The Shanghai projections are on your desk."
I didn't respond. She knew not to expect a thank-you. Praise is currency. I never spend it unless it yields something measurable.
I turned, moving through the sleek minimalism of the office's black marble, matte steel, and glass walls so clear they looked like nothing at all. Just like me. Clean. Cold. Unapologetic.
People like to imagine there's warmth under the surface. They cling to the fantasy that money and pain must coexist. That a man with a fortune must carry a wound.
I don't carry wounds. I carry leverage.
In the boardroom, six men and two women stood the moment I entered. Some offered practiced smiles. Others stiffened like they were about to be cross-examined. They were. They just didn't know it yet.
I didn't sit. I don't need to. Power isn't in posture. It's in presence. "The pitch," I said, glancing at the man seated nearest the head of the table. A VP of something I never bothered to memorize.
He stuttered into his presentation. Words spilling out too fast. Slide after slide. A concept I dismissed before it even started. I watched him sweat through his designer shirt, watched his throat convulse every time my eyes passed over him.
I said nothing for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds. Long enough for the fear to fully bake.
Then: "You're wasting my time."
He stopped mid-sentence. Blinked. "S-sir?"
"Your numbers are soft. Your model is outdated. You're betting on consumer loyalty in a market that's already bleeding. If you want to throw money at sentiment, go buy a charity."
The man's face paled. No one else dared speak. I moved closer, standing behind him. "Do you know how I built this company, Mr. Denver?"
He swallowed. "Relentless innovation, sir."
"No." I leaned in slightly, my voice low and cutting. "I built it by removing people who guess. You just guessed."
I straightened, walked back toward the head of the table, and looked over the rest of them. "Get out. All of you. Except Misha."
Chairs scraped the floor in nervous unison. The room cleared in under twenty seconds.
Misha remained. She didn't flinch. Good. That's why I keep her. She's not afraid of blood. She's afraid of failure.
I finally sat, opening the file she had discreetly slid toward me. Another acquisition. Another dying company with potential buried beneath incompetence.
"Bleed it, restructure it, rebrand it. If there's resistance, replace leadership quietly. No headlines," I said. She nodded, jotting notes. "And the patent issue?"
"Buy the lawyer. If that doesn't work, bury him in paperwork until he forgets what side he's on."
She didn't blink. That's the difference between useful and replaceable. By the time she left, it was 10:07 AM. My days are segmented into blocks of fifteen. Nothing runs over. Nothing runs late.
I returned to my private floor, the hum of automation greeting me. Lights adjusted to match my preferences. Coffee, black and unasked for, already waiting. The morning paper, printed, not digital—I like the feel of it, the finality of ink.
I skimmed headlines while my phone buzzed twice. Only two people are programmed to reach me directly. One of them I ignored.
The other was my mother.
I swiped to decline the call and tossed the phone onto the leather chaise in the corner. She'll call again. She always does. And she always says the same thing:
"Your father would be ashamed."
Maybe. Or maybe he'd finally understand that weakness doesn't get carved out. It gets inherited. And I carved it out of myself a long time ago.
I don't believe in closure. Or therapy. Or any of the nonsense people pay for when they're afraid to face their mirrors.
I believe in results.
By noon, I'd signed off on five mergers, killed two international contracts, and pulled a twenty-million-dollar donation from a cancer research gala because their director posted something idiotic on Twitter. It doesn't matter what. She knows now.
At exactly 12:30, I stepped into my car. The driver nodded, silent. I don't allow music. I don't allow chatter. Just motion. Clean, quiet motion.
The city blurred past. My buildings. My people. My brand is woven into the fabric of every skyline. And still, it's not enough.
It never is. Not because I want more—but because I refuse to feel less. The moment I stop pushing, stop acquiring, stop gutting anything inefficient—I'll become them.
Soft. Noisy. Needy.
That's the thing no one understands about men like me. We're not empty by accident. We're empty by design. I made myself this way. And it works.
The driver stopped in front of the black steel tower I owned downtown. Another meeting. Another man who thought his billion-dollar idea would impress me. I give them fifteen minutes. No more.
Inside, the elevator opened to a silent lobby. Glass, chrome, matte stone. Immaculate. My reflection followed me from every angle.
There are mirrors everywhere for a reason. So no one forgets who they're trying to impress.
I stepped into the conference suite, already knowing the man inside would fail. He wore cologne. Smiled too easily. Offered his hand like we were equals.
I ignored it.
"Fourteen minutes," I said, checking my watch. "Start talking."
I was done with every appointment and meeting I had for the day. Except one.
The most important thing to me in my life currently. A child. I got into my Benz and had my chauffeur take me to the hospital.
***
Later at night
I'm seated on my bed and I can't stop thinking about that girl.
I can still smell it. And that girl with such sharp eyes wouldn't get off my mind. She had no idea who I was. That much was obvious. She stirred something weird in me. It made me surprised and I reacted with anger.
Good. It's better that way.No fawning. No fake smiles. Just shock. And something else. Something darker flickering in those wide eyes.
Black hair. Full lips. That smart-ass mouth she barely used. I didn't expect her to look at me like that—like I didn't belong in her space. Like I was the disruption.
It pissed me off. Made me want to say more. Push harder. So I did. And goddammit, the way she trembled…
That wasn't fear. That was something else entirely. Her stuttering pissed me off yet turned me on. But her eyes—those fucking eyes—they screamed at me. Touch me and I'll break you. Touch me and I'll beg.
Who the hell is she? It's not like I care. She looked good to be fucked and dumped. That much I could tell.
It was time for my routine rituals: two espressos, one email purge, and precisely thirty-two minutes of uninterrupted thought. I don't like disruptions. Which is exactly what this call is.
The screen flashes: Dr. Nora John. I don't answer immediately. Just stare at the name glowing like a threat before finally swiping a finger across the screen.
"Talk."
"We've found her," Nora says without preamble. "The girl. She's young. Healthy. No medical complications. She passed all psych evaluations."
I tap my pen against the desk. "She knows the terms?
"Yes. We explained everything. She's… eager. Or desperate. I'm not sure which. "
They're the same thing in situations like this, I murmur. Go ahead.
There's a pause. Ace, you don't want to….to
"I said go ahead."
I end the call before she can finish her sentence. Nora has always had too much concern in her voice, too much softness. As if I might suddenly change my mind and grow a conscience.
I won't.
This isn't about family. Or love. Or whatever sentimental nonsense people cling to. This is about legacy, uncomplicated, clinical, and clean.
Or at least it was supposed to be.