Chapter 3 3:

The morning light filtered through the windows of my penthouse, but it did little to warm the cold, atmosphere of the room.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the silk sheets sliding off my frame, staring at the reflection in the vanity mirror. The man staring back was a stranger to most, a titan of industry, a name that caused stock markets to fluctuate with a single word, and a face that graced the covers of Forbes magazine more times than I could count.

But to me, he was just a man carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders.

I stood up, stretching the stiffness from my limbs. My home was vast, a sprawling expanse of modern architecture and expensive art, yet it echoed with a profound silence.

I headed to the bathroom, a space that felt like a world of its own, private, and comforting. I pulled off my top and stepped inside.

I turned on the shower, and water cascaded gently over my body, running through my curly hair and down my skin.

I took my time, letting the warmth relax me completely. After a while, I finished bathing, reached for my bathing suit, and stepped out. I dried my body slowly, still enjoying the soothing feeling the water had left behind.

I walked into my walk-in closet, a room larger than most people's apartments, and began the ritual of armoring myself for the day. Today was not a day for relaxation; today was about appearances, about maintaining the image of the Vanguard Group company.

I selected a suit from the rack. It was a Tom Ford piece, deep midnight black, tailored to perfection to hug my frame. I slipped on the trousers first, the fabric cool against my skin, followed by a crisp white dress shirt that I buttoned up to the collar. I chose a tie of silk, black with a subtle geometric pattern, and knotted it with practiced precision. Finally, I slipped into the jacket, smoothing out the lapels.

I sat back down to put on my shoes, Italian leather oxfords, polished to a mirror shine. As I tied the laces, I caught sight of my hair in the mirror. It was curly, unruly at times, but I kept it tamed and styled, framing a face that my publicist described as "ruggedly intellectual."

My skin complexion was golden, a testament to my heritage, and my eyes were dark, often described by the media as "fearless." They were eyes that had seen negotiations turn sour and deals collapse, eyes that never blinked first.

I stood up and adjusted my cuffs, checking my reflection one last time. I looked the part. I looked like a man who owned the world. But as I applied my signature cologne, a scent of sandalwood and spice I felt nothing but a hollow sense of duty.

I walked out of the closet and headed for the bedroom door. The hallway was silent, lined with artwork that I rarely had time to appreciate. I reached the grand staircase, a sweeping structure of marble and glass that descended to the main living area.

I didn't walk down it leisurely. I descended with a purpose, my footsteps echoing sharply against the stone. The rhythm of my gait was steady, a cadence that matched the ticking clock in my mind. I was a man of frequency and precision; everything I did had a reason, a timing, and a place.

"Sir, your breakfast is ready," I heard my cook, Corvina, say.

"No, I won't be having breakfast today. I have something important to attend to, and I'm running late."

"Okay, sir," she said, nodding her head.

As I reached the bottom landing, my security team was already waiting. They were a silent, imposing presence in black suits, earpieces coiled around their ears, eyes scanning for threats that would never dare to manifest here.

"Good morning, Mr. Alexander Mark," the head of my security, a man named Marcus, said with a curt nod.

"Marcus," I replied, not breaking my stride. "Is the car ready?"

"It's waiting in the driveway, sir."

I walked out of the front doors, the cool morning air hitting my face. The driveway was lined with luxury vehicles. Sitting there, purring with a low, aggressive idle, was my Rolls-Royce Phantom.

It was a beast of a machine, a symbol of opulence and engineering excellence. It was painted in a deep, metallic charcoal that seemed to absorb the light around it.

Marcus moved ahead, opening the rear passenger door with a gloved hand. I nodded to him as I approached, sliding into the cool, leather-clad interior. The door closed with a solid, reassuring thunk, sealing me away from the outside world. The interior smelled of new leather and that distinct, expensive scent that only a car costing half a million dollars could possess.

He closed my door and walked around the car before opening his own. He settled into the front passenger seat while the driver, Ethan, adjusted himself and prepared to start the engine.

"Good morning, sir," Ethan said as he turned the key in the ignition.

"Good morning," I replied absently, my attention fixed on the files I was reviewing.

The engine came to life, and moments later, we drove away from the penthouse.

The drive to St. Jude's College was relatively long, so I checked my watch, a limited edition Patek Philippe. I was running slightly ahead of schedule, which was rare. I usually preferred to be late, a power move that kept people waiting, but today, I felt an odd urge to get this over with.

The donation was a PR stunt, nothing more. A few buildings to secure a tax write-off and some positive press for the Vanguard Group. I had no particular affinity for the institution. It was just another transaction in a life filled with them.

As the car turned onto the avenue leading to the main gate of the college, I heard it before I saw it. A low, rhythmic roar that grew louder with every second.

"It wasn't an engine. It was a crowd."

The Rolls-Royce slowed as we approached the imposing iron gates of the college.

Students were lining the road, standing five or six deep behind the temporary barricades that had been set up. They were holding signs, waving, and craning their necks to get a look. As my car rolled through the gates, the roar exploded.

"Mr. Alexander! Mr. Alexander!"

I kept my expression neutral, unreadable. This was the part I hated the most: the adulation of strangers who didn't know me, who only knew the brand.

The car finally came to a stop at the base of the grand staircase that led up to the administration building. Before the car had even fully settled, my security detail was in motion. Two guards stepped out of the trailing SUV and took up positions by the rear door of my car, while the others formed a perimeter.

"Marcus stepped out in a rush and opened the door."

I stepped out into the chaos. The flash of cameras was blinding, a strobe light effect that threatened to give me a headache before the day had even begun. The screams of the female students were piercing, a wall of sound that washed over me.

"Oh my god, he's even hotter in person!" "Look at those curls!" "Mr. Alexander, over here!"

"I ignored them all."

I adjusted my suit, smoothing the front of my jacket, and looked straight ahead. My face was a mask of cool indifference.

Waiting at the top of the stairs was Principal Miller, Mr. Miller. He was a man of medium build with a thinning hairline and a smile that looked a little too desperate to please. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he descended the steps to greet me, his hand extended.

"Mr. Alexander! Welcome, welcome to St. Jude's College!" he exclaimed, his voice booming as he tried to compete with the crowd. "It is such an honor to have the CEO of the Vanguard Group company gracing us with your presence."

I took his hand, giving it a single, firm shake before releasing it. "Principal Miller," I said, my voice deep and level. "Thank you for having me.

"We've prepared a full tour," he continued, undeterred by my brevity. "The students are ecstatic. The news about you donating several buildings to the school has spread all over the campus like wildfire. You're now a celebrity at St. Jude's College, sir. A true hero to our academic community."

He gestured to a banner hanging from the administration building that bore my face and the words:

"THANK YOU, MR. ALEXANDER MARK."

"We've already put up your name and photo on display in the main hall," he rattled on, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool morning air.

"The press is ready for the photo op, and the student council president is prepared to give a speech in your honor"

"Rattling all day," I cut him off, my tone sharp enough to slice through his monologue.

Mr. Miller stopped mid-sentence, blinking rapidly.

"I... I beg your pardon?"

"All that fanfare," I said, gesturing vaguely at the banner, the cameras, and the screaming students. "The principal can save it for someone else, but not me. I didn't come here for a parade. I don't need any of that."

I stared down at the watch on my wrist, tapping the face of it lightly. "I am here to sign the documents, verify the building plans, and leave. I have a lot of things to do, Principal Miller. My time is valuable."

The smile on his face faltered, cracking slightly to reveal the anxiety underneath. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Understood... understood completely, Mr. Mark," he stammered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sweat glistening on his forehead. "Of course. We don't want to waste a titan's time. I apologize for the... exuberance. We will skip the ceremony. I have the papers ready in my office. Right this way."

He turned abruptly, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to lead the way. I fell into step behind him, my security detail flanking me like a moving wall. We walked through the throngs of students, the parting of the sea instantaneous. The noise level dipped as I passed, a hush falling over the crowd followed by a renewed wave of whispers and shutter clicks.