CEO'S WORSHIPED OBSESSION.
Flashback, 13 Years Ago.
I was 19, sprawled on the Stones’ lumpy couch, a pizza box open on the coffee table, grease stains on my jeans. Fabian was thirteen, acting less of a teenager, all messy brown hair and big green eyes, bouncing around the living room like he was powered by sugar.
The TV was showing some cartoon about superheroes, but I was barely watching, my nose in a beat up romance novel. He ran over, holding a crumpled piece of paper, his latest masterpiece.
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