Nathan Mills sat heavily in his wide leather chair inside the Mills Corp headquarters, the blinds drawn halfway, allowing only thin streaks of light to slip into the room. The dimness gave the office a suffocating feel, as though even daylight had no business entering the space where regret now lived. In one hand, he held a photograph, one of the very few pictures he had kept over the years. It was of him and Charlotte, taken during one of those rare, fragile moments when their relationship had not yet been consumed by his arrogance and cruelty. In the photo, Charlotte was smiling brightly, her eyes filled with warmth, her head slightly tilted toward him. He, on the other hand, wore a faint, indifferent smile, unaware of the treasure he had beside him. His thumb moved slowly across her face in the photograph, tracing her features with a kind of reverence that came far too late. In his other hand, he held a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling lazily as his wris
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