MICHAEL The study always smelled the same — old leather, whiskey, and dominance. My father’s perfume.He didn’t look up when I entered, just signed something, folded the page, and finally said,“Close the door, Michael.”His voice hadn’t aged. Still smooth. Still sharp enough to slice obedience out of anyone weaker.I didn’t move. “I won’t be long.”He looked up then, dark eyes flat as steel. “You’ve been making noise in the press again.”I almost smiled. Noise. That’s what he called building something without his hand in it.“It’s called visibility,” I said. “You used to like that.”His lips curved — the kind of smirk that never reached his eyes. “Visibility is fine. Defiance isn’t.”I laughed once, low. “You still think I belong to you.”“You do,” he said simply, leaning back in that ridiculous throne of a chair. “Everything you have, I gave you. You’re my creation, Michael. My legacy.”Something twisted in my chest — a familiar ache, sharp, old, and still alive.I stepped clo
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