"Um… s-sir, so…"
My PA finally broke the silence. It had been exactly 24 minutes and 33 seconds since I returned from my father's office. I hadn't said a word the entire time, and the weight in the room must've been unbearable for him.
Can't blame the guy.
I'd left the room earlier practically glowing with ambition. Now I looked like a corpse with a promotion.
"No luck," I said flatly, cutting off his stuttered attempt at small talk.
"Ah… I'm sorry to hear that," he offered, voice cautious. "Sir Edward must've been in a bad mood this morning. I suggest presenting the idea again once he's done handling those sanitary allegations."
Sanitary allegations. Cute.
Petty tactics from local tycoons trying to stall a takeover they know is inevitable. At best, a speed bump. At worst, an excuse for people like my PA to pretend there's still hope.
"Also, I'm sure Sir Ed—"
"Evening's inauguration. Everything's taken care of, I assume?" I cut him off. "There were noise complaints from local residents—mic setups, expected crowds. Formal complaint filed, or did we settle without involving city hall?"
Of course, I already knew the answer. He'd placed a rental order for mic sets through a Grand Road vendor, then shifted the event venue from the open ground to an auditorium nearby. Kept the after-meeting festivities—food, drinks, gift bags—inside, while staging formal speeches to distract from the sudden venue change. Smart move, though I'd pretend I didn't know just so he could get his little moment of problem-solving glory.
"Yes, sir. I couldn't secure any nearby function halls, and changing the location too drastically would make us look weak. I disguised the switch with cultural performances and pre-meeting segments."
"Solid call. But next time, get official mic permits. Bribe the inspectors if you have to."
A pause. He didn't speak, but I could feel the judgment.
I don't recommend bribery often—but this wasn't really about complaints from "local residents." No, this was about officers who'd caught wind of the fact that the host of this event was me—William Crutz. Son of Edward Crutz. Second-gen tycoon. Heir to the Crutz Real Estates empire.
Technically, the event was for a small real estate startup. Practically? It was us testing the waters in a new district. But someone squealed. We've got rats. And I've got my suspicions.
I stood, motioning for my PA to follow. Likely destination? Finance. I needed eyes on a firm called Truckteam Company—potential rats in client clothing.
We walked in silence. Honestly, the quiet helped. My mind had been spiraling since the moment I stepped out of my father's office—exactly 26 minutes and 48 seconds ago.
Why?
Because he'd shut me down. Again.
I'd presented my plan—something I'd thought through for months. Step back from the company. Start one of my own. Build it up, then merge it with Crutz years down the line when I'd proven myself.
Reasonable, right?
Apparently not.
"Fuck off, William," was his entire response.
I tried again. Laid out slides. Revenue models. Market projections. He watched, listened. Even nodded once.
Then, again: "Fuck off, William."
I wish I could laugh.
I know how this sounds—rich heir whining about not being allowed to give up a billion-dollar empire to "make something of his own." Boo-hoo. First-world problems, right?
But it's more than that.
I'm not doing this out of rebellion. I'm not some "self-made" evangelist trying to impress LinkedIn. I just… want something that feels real. Something I built. A company with people I hired because they earned their place, not because Daddy said so. A business I bled for, fought for. So that maybe—just maybe—I could finally feel like I deserved the comforts I live in.
It's strange, isn't it?
I have everything. Money. Status. Opportunities. But they all feel… fake. Like I'm walking through someone else's story.
Because that's exactly what this is. My father's empire. His legacy. His rules.
And you can't enjoy what you don't recognize as your own.
So yeah, I wanted to build something. Not from the bottom—I'm not delusional—but from a place that lets me own the journey.
And after two and a half years of rejection—today wasn't the first, believe it or not—I reached my limit.
So I made a decision.
If I can't build that world in reality, maybe I'll write one instead.
I got home around 9:45 PM.
Took a shower. Had a light meal. My chest felt tight—acidic, almost. Probably just the stress and those goddamn car rides over the past week. I brushed it off.
Tonight, I had something else to do.
I opened a blank notebook. My pen hovered over the page.
No plot. No structure. Not even a genre.
Just a concept.
A protagonist. My counterpart.
He'll be born in the slums. Orphaned. Penniless. The lowest of the low. He won't inherit anything. He'll have to take it—earn it—every inch of the way.
He'll rise. Slowly. Brutally. Overthrow the corrupt duchy he was born into with the support of commoners, barons, even nobles who once looked down on him. He'll build a new duchy from the ground up, using the wealth and hoarded luxuries of the fallen lord to fund his rebirth.
It's not just power fantasy.
It's projection.
He'll do everything I've dreamed of doing. Make every bold move I wasn't allowed to. Take every risk I was told to avoid.
He'll be free.
And maybe, just maybe, through him—I'll feel a little less trapped.
I chuckled as I imagined him—half a grin curling from one corner of my mouth to the other.
Then my chest tightened again.
This time, sharper.
I dropped the pen.
The pain spread like fire up my left arm. I slumped forward, vision blurred, breath escaping me in quick, useless gasps.
And as the room faded, one last thought clawed its way to the front of my mind:
I never got to write his name.
Then—
I DIED.
CAUSE: HEART ATTACK.