WHO ARE YOU

THEODORE

Novaris Holdings was an enterprise built from loss, sweat, and toil. At the top of the empire sat Theodore Lucian Banks, on his black leather throne, carved from the quiet arrogance of success and the cold permanence of survival. The chair had been commissioned from Italian craftsmen who spoke reverently about legacy while measuring angles and stitching perfection into every seam, yet Theodore often thought it less a symbol of victory and more a monument to endurance - proof that he had outlived every circumstance designed to break him.

He hadn’t stumbled into this wealth and power, nor had fortune ever softened his path with convenient inheritance or family privilege. There had been no powerful surname waiting to open doors, no father’s empire passed down through reluctant hands. Every inch of Novaris Holdings existed because Theodore had learned early that the world rewarded neither innocence nor patience, only those willing to outwork despair itself.

Life had never offered him lemons; it had demanded flesh and bone instead.

He grew up in a neighbourhood where ambition sounded like arrogance and dreams were considered dangerous illusions. Electricity failed more often than it worked, rainwater crept beneath doors during storm season, and hunger was not dramatic enough to inspire sympathy - it was simply routine. His mother worked herself into silence, her hands always smelling faintly of detergent and exhaustion, while Theodore learned numbers before he learned comfort, calculating costs, debts, and opportunities long before he understood childhood.

At sixteen, he discovered the first rule of survival: people underestimated quiet boys.

He worked where he could, saved what little he earned, watched men with power conduct business in cheap bars and dim offices, memorizing tone, posture, and timing the way others memorized prayers. He failed more times than he admitted even to himself. A logistics venture collapsed beneath a partner’s betrayal; an early investment dissolved overnight; creditors once stood outside his apartment demanding payment he could not give. Yet each loss sharpened him instead of hollowing him, carving away hesitation until only discipline remained.

Novaris began as nothing more than a small consulting firm operating out of a rented space barely large enough for two desks and a dying air conditioner. Theodore slept there more nights than he returned home, studying market trends while the city slept, building connections others overlooked, acquiring struggling businesses others abandoned. He specialized in resurrection - taking dying companies and forcing them back into relevance through sheer strategic precision. Over time, resurrection became expansion, expansion became dominance, and dominance became an empire powerful enough that competitors spoke his name cautiously, as though success itself might overhear.

Now he overlooked the city through the glass walls of his office, high above the restless pulse of commerce and ambition. He had chosen this location deliberately because it allowed him to see everything - the skyline stretching endlessly toward possibility, the sun rising and setting in vibrant hues over buildings dwarfed by his tower, the distant shimmer of the sea beyond the urban chaos. From this height, the world appeared almost peaceful, reduced to movement without noise, ambition without desperation.

Sometimes he stood there imagining a simpler life, though he never allowed the thought to linger long enough to become regret.

From one extreme of impoverished existence to the other in a relentless, meaningless pursuit of happiness, Theodore often wondered whether success was merely another form of survival disguised as victory. He possessed wealth, influence, and control over industries that shaped the city’s future, yet the silence that followed him home each night felt heavier than any burden he had carried in poverty.

How clever of fate to crown his efforts with everything except the one thing he truly wanted.

Happiness remained an abstract concept, elusive and intangible, something he could negotiate for in contracts yet never acquire personally. There had been moments - brief, fragile moments - when he believed he had found it, only for life to remind him that permanence was not promised to men like him.

That was why, when Rutherford Restaurant established itself in the city, Theodore made it his refuge. Officially, it was one of the most exclusive dining establishments in the region, a masterpiece of luxury and refinement owned by the formidable Rutherford Empire, whose arrival had reshaped the city’s elite social landscape. Unofficially, it was the only place where the noise inside his mind quieted.

He maintained a private room there, permanently reserved under a discreet arrangement no manager dared question. The staff knew him not merely as a patron but as a constant presence - someone who arrived alone, stayed longer than necessary, and left without ever appearing satisfied.

Because Rutherford was more than a restaurant to him.

It was a memory.

A tiny, stubborn light within him refused to die, a brittle hope he had never successfully extinguished. Somewhere beneath years of discipline and calculated detachment lived the belief that one day he might catch a glimpse of her again, even if only for a fleeting second. He understood how irrational the thought was. Time erased people. Cities swallowed histories. Life moved forward without waiting for unfinished stories.

Still, he allowed himself the fantasy.

Being inside Rutherford was the closest he came to being near her again.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts before the office doors opened, and Owen stepped inside with practiced efficiency. Owen Clarke had served as Theodore’s personal assistant for nearly seven years, long enough to anticipate moods before they were spoken aloud. He carried a tablet tucked beneath one arm, posture straight, expression carefully neutral.

“Good morning, Mr. Banks,” Owen said. “Your nine-thirty has been moved to eleven due to international scheduling conflicts. Legal requires your approval on the Meridian acquisition, and Finance has finalized projections for the fourth-quarter expansion.”

Theodore turned away from the window, returning to the present with seamless composure. “Anything urgent?”

Owen hesitated briefly, the subtle pause signalling significance. “There is also a contract bid submitted this morning. Connard-Rutherford Consortium.”

Theodore’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.

The name lingered in the air like an unfinished sentence.

He had yet to conduct business directly with the Connard-Rutherford empire, despite their rapid ascent after establishing themselves in the city two years earlier. Their growth had been aggressive, calculated, and undeniably impressive—an organization built with the same ruthless intelligence Theodore recognized in himself. Industry analysts predicted an inevitable collision between Novaris Holdings and Rutherford interests; markets this large did not allow parallel empires indefinitely.

A part of him had delayed that moment intentionally.

Not from weakness, but from something dangerously close to reluctance.

“Details?” he asked.

Owen handed over the tablet. “Joint development proposal. High-value hospitality expansion combined with luxury real estate investment. They are requesting a strategic partnership rather than an acquisition.”

Theodore skimmed the document, absorbing figures and projections with effortless precision, yet his attention lingered on the Rutherford name far longer than necessary. The proposal was flawless - too flawless - suggesting careful preparation and deliberate intent.

Inevitable, he thought.

He placed the tablet on his desk. “Keep it on hold.”

Owen blinked. “On hold, sir?”

“For now.” Theodore’s voice remained calm. “No response yet.”

“Understood.”

Owen noted the instruction and exited quietly, leaving the office once again filled with silence and distant city sounds muffled by glass.

Theodore exhaled slowly.

He knew he could not avoid Rutherford forever. Business demanded convergence, and avoidance had never been his strategy. Still, accepting that bid felt less like negotiation and more like reopening a door he had spent years convincing himself was closed.

Restlessness settled over him.

He reached for his coat, deciding without conscious deliberation that he needed air -space away from numbers, expectations, and the suffocating precision of success. Rutherford called to him again, as it always did when memory pressed too heavily against reason.

He moved toward the door, already imagining the familiar ambiance of his private room, the quiet hum of conversation beyond closed walls, the illusion of proximity to something lost.

His phone vibrated just as his hand touched the handle.

The interruption was sharp enough to halt him mid-step.

A message notification illuminated the screen.

For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Few people possessed this private contact line, and unsolicited messages rarely survived his attention. Yet something - instinct, perhaps - compelled him to look.

He unlocked the screen and found a text from an unsaved number.

The words stared back at him. ‘Who are you?’