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“Son, they’re going to take everything away from me. Everything I’ve worked so hard for, and I can’t stop them.” My father’s anguished voice breaks as he swipes a frail hand over his face and the weariness he’s not bothering to hide anymore.

I stare at the monitor, taking in the man I’ve looked up to my entire life, and suddenly, I’m hit with the realization he isn’t invincible. He’s flesh and blood like the rest of us.

Now, as he sits in his office and I’m in mine on opposite sides of the country, I finally notice how his cheeks are sunken in, how his gray hair is finally beginning to thin at the top, how his complexion appears sallower than the last time I saw him.

He looks like he’s shed some weight as well, as his dress shirt hangs loosely on his thin body almost like clothing on a dress hanger.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen him smile.

Surely, he must have when I told him I got promoted to the head of the investments department in the biggest investment bank on the East Coast?

Or last Thanksgiving when I flew back home for the obligatory dinner where Mother had the chef prepare Father’s favorite pan seared foie gras with caramelized figs and tender filet mignon with a side of garden salad, as if that’d offset the clogged-up arteries from the meal?

I wrack my brain for the details, but I come up empty.

I don’t even remember if there was laughter at the table or if we all sat around the formal dining room with three dozen forks and spoons, eating in silence, waiting for the meal to be over so we could go back to our regular lives, or at least, I could spend time with my siblings and their families, where the actual festivities began.

Father dissolves into a fit of coughing and my chest clenches.

I want to tell him everything will be okay.

I want to see the glint of admiration in his gaze as he doles out a terse nod of approval.

Perhaps the little boy hiding behind the window that fateful rainy night long ago has never disappeared.

He’s only been in hiding, waiting for the right time to step into the light.

Twirling my pen with my fingers, I swallow.

“Father, I’ve been following their actions.

Voss Industries are unscrupulous, but they aren’t invincible.

We both know they’ve been sniffing around TransAmerica for the last few years, so the fact it took them this long to make a move tells us something.

They don’t have the strongest case, or they’d have convinced the board to sell a long time ago.

A hostile takeover is the last resort. I think they’ll continue to circle the company for a while, attempt to buy out smaller shareholders, and won’t do anything drastic until they see a better opening. ”

Father’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans back in his office chair. He looks like he hasn’t slept in ages. “All these years, all the sacrifices. I can’t keep fighting anymore.”

A burning fire begins at the base of my spine and slowly travels up to my chest at his despondence.

Has he ever fought for his family the way he fought for TransAmerica?

I tamp down the rising anger inside me. If there’s one thing I hate more than failure, it’s regret.

And I can’t let the past become a catalyst for more regrets in the future.

I clench my jaw and take a deep breath of eucalyptus scented air from the office diffuser, the scent forever reminding me of Nana, who never changed her perfume in over fifty years before she passed away.

Sitting up, I exhale and lean forward. Despite whatever faults Father has had, no one is allowed to make him feel this way.

No one is permitted to topple a Kingsley without repercussions.

I won’t allow it .

“I’ve been monitoring the situation in case Voss goes forward with the takeover later. Pietra is keen on my idea as well,” I begin, watching my father’s eyes slowly drift open, the dying spark inside them flaring at my words.

A few months ago when TransAmerica issues started appearing more serious, I came up with a plan, but until last night, I couldn’t bring myself to step in, to save the one thing that mattered more than us to him.

“We both know Voss is good at purchasing companies and selling them for parts later. But we at Pietra Capital believe TransAmerica is better as a whole. If they proceed with a hostile takeover, we’ll join the proxy fight, and if we win, TransAmerica will be one of our portfolio companies, headed by me.

Your legacy won’t be destroyed, and we’ll teach Timothy Voss a lesson about playing by the rules.

In the meantime, until it reaches that point, we’ll be on standby. ”

Voss Industries, a company which got its start in Big Pharma, is a scumbag in the business world, notorious for using tactics falling within the gray zone of legality to achieve their goals.

There have been SEC investigations into their practices because everyone suspects they use illegal methods in their arsenal such as blackmail or espionage, but no one has proved it.

Timothy Voss is a disgusting man known for his terrible treatment of women and his shady business dealings.

They’re a disruptor to the old school handshakes and greasing of elbows the business elites are used to, and no one is keen on them growing their influence in the commerce and financial industries, which TransAmerica is currently a big player in.

Father’s demeanor changes before my eyes as he contemplates my words.

He’s always made it known he wishes I would take over the helm at TransAmerica, but being a publicly traded company, that’d involve board approval and votes, and now there’s no time for that.

Plus, there are still plenty of old geezers who believe someone only twenty-eight years of age cannot possibly manage a multi-national conglomerate despite my resume and successes at Pietra .

Father now sits up straighter, a small swath of color returning to his cheeks. It’s as if the life slowly leaking out from his body has been stemmed.

I see hope in his eyes.

Perhaps this is the only way for me to fulfill his dreams. To take care of his legacy from afar. Maybe someday, he won’t regret staying behind all those years ago. He won’t think of my sisters and me as a burden.

He would believe he made the right choice.

“You think you can save TransAmerica?” He sounds buoyant for once, like a castaway finally seeing the silhouette of a ship on the horizon.

Determination whips through me. A want—no, a need—to show him his choice back then was not in vain.

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Do it the right way, son. We don’t sink down to their level.”

He’s honorable, even to the end. Well, honorable in all matters except for his family. The fucking irony.

My head throbs after we hang up. I wanted to hate TransAmerica and him because of that fateful night almost eighteen years ago. But despite multiple attempts, I just can’t.

Why do I still fucking care so much?

I thought my emotions were long dead, but apparently, I still care about his approval.

It’s fucking pathetic.

Clenching my fist, I briefly close my eyes, only to be interrupted by a chime from my phone.

Ryland

Dipshit, are you still alive? I haven’t seen you in at least three weeks. Drinks at The Orchid this week? Or at least send me a proof of life text.

My foul mood lightens a smidge at the message from my good friend, Ryland Anderson, who seems to be battling with some issues himself these days.

Aside from the one night with Liesel, work has been my mistress for the last few weeks, with the days blurring into nights.

I should send him a text later before he sends out a search team.

Knock. Knock.

“Mr. Kingsley, your team is ready for you in the conference room,” Jane, my assistant, announces through the door.

“Coming.”

My idiotic team. Remembering the purpose of the meeting, I grab the binder containing the world’s most ridiculous analysis and stalk toward the conference room, all temporary relief from Ryland’s text forgotten.

The office, which occupies ten floors in a modern skyscraper within walking distance to the Charging Bull sculpture on Wall Street, is bustling with activity, with morning sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating most of the employees buried in their work within the confines of the glass cubicles separating the space.

Hushed voices and beeping of phones fill the air as bankers and traders make their first calls of the morning.

Several flat screens hanging on the far walls showcase the market positions and the latest news of all the international markets, from the New York Stock Exchange to the Hong Kong Hang Seng Index.

The office thrums with energy and this normally gives me the greatest highs, except this morning, after my call with Father and the atrocity in the binder I’m clutching in my hand.

A small group of unfamiliar faces linger by one cubicle—interns, maybe, since they start today.

A few managers and vice presidents dip their heads in greeting as I pass by them.

As the youngest vice president of Pietra Capital, the reigning investment bank in revenues on Wall Street, I’m on the shortlist for a promotion to the newly vacated Chief Operating Officer position after Greg Marley keeled over last month from a heart attack on his seventy-foot yacht during his sojourn to the Mediterranean.

It was said he didn’t even want to go on this trip in the first place, but his wife begged him for a vacation to relive their honeymoon, and he relented after much pestering from her .

Perhaps he would still be alive if he didn’t have a wife, because he would’ve been in New York City, mere minutes away from the top hospitals in the world.