Chapter 3 TOWER OF GLASS

Wilfred POV

The city looks dead from up here. Cold and gray like concrete that forgot how to feel. I watch from behind the glass, hands shoved in my pockets, face unreadable. Fifty-three floors above the world and I still can't find enough distance.

My office is all sleek surfaces and silence. Black marble, brushed steel, matte glass. It's supposed to scream power. Mostly, it just echoes.

I lean against the window, forehead close to the glass. People look like insects this high up-tiny, fast, pointless. My reflection stares back at me, faint in the morning light. I don't like the man in the mirror. Too sharp around the eyes. Too much like her.

Vivienne.

I had a knock on the door but I decided not to answer because it doesn't matter. My assistant comes in anyway.

"Ms. Johnson is here," she says, voice clipped, respectful. "Do you want me to reschedule her-"

"No." I turn my back on the window. "Let her in."

It's not a request. It never is.

Vivienne walks in like she owns the place. Because, technically, she does. Forty-nine percent stake in Johnson Global was belong to her.

Her heels click like gunshots on the marble. Hair in a perfect twist. Not a single thread out of place. She smells like money and polished ambition.

"Darling," she called me and I was surprised at the word. It's too soft. Doesn't belong in her mouth.

"Mother." I nod once.

She sits without asking, crosses one leg over the other. "You're still not furnishing this place? Honestly, it looks like a mausoleum."

"I like it quiet."

"You mean lifeless."

I don't say anything. I just sit across from her, watching her fingers move over her leather bag. Her nails are perfect. Her rings look sharp, almost like little weapons.

"You didn't call me back," she says after a beat. Her tone doesn't rise and doesn't fall. It just cuts.

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy when you want to avoid me."

And that's the simple truth.

"Let discuss what bring you here," I shot back, "What do you want?"

Her lips tighten, just a flicker. "There's a gala this Saturday. we're going to host old rich families, new tech people and potential investors"

"I'm not going."

"You are going."

There's no debate in her voice. Just a simple, brutal fact.

I lean back, my fingers steepled. "I don't have time for parties. I've got merger calls lined up all week."

"You have time to play savior to dying subsidiaries in Switzerland but not to show your face in front of the people funding your lifestyle?"

"My lifestyle funds itself."

She laughs softly and cruelly. "Wilfred, you're brilliant. But don't be naïve. You might run the operations, but you don't own the ground you stand on-not without me."

That old acid in my throat bubbles up. I swallow it. Tastes like bile and resignation.

"This again," I mutter.

"Yes, this again." She leans forward, her eyes locked on mine. "You wanted to build an empire. I let you. But never forget-this glass tower? It rests on my money and my connections. My name on the boardroom papers before yours ever mattered."

Her smile is small and terrible. "So when I ask you to show up and play the game, you will show up and play."

My hands curl into fists in my lap, trying to hold it all in, the silence is heavy, tight with tension. I'm barely holding it together.

I want to argue with her, scream or flip this chair and storm out like none of this matters. But I don't and I can't try it, Because deep down, I know she's right. She's always right-and that's what hurts the most.

And that's what I hate the most-how she always gets under my skin, how she's always one step ahead.

I clench my jaw and force the words out. "What investors?"

She doesn't blink. "New money from Singapore, Biotech companies and Disruptive AI. They're planning to set up a base here in the U.S. This gala? It's your chance to win them over."

She shrugs like it's no big deal and there's no guilt in her voice, not even a blink of hesitation or apology. Just smooth and effortless, like always. "Of course," she says, her voice calm, almost sweet. "But you're the one they want to see, darling. You're the face of it all. The prodigy. The story they can't resist."

I look away, my chest tightening. She says it so casually, like my pain is a selling point. Like everything I went through-everything I survived-is just part of the packaging.

"People love a man in a sharp suit with a tragic past," she adds with a small smile, like it's some kind of compliment. And maybe it is, to her. But to me, it feels like another wound dressed up in gold.

I let out a laugh- sharp, short and empty. "I'm not tortured," I say, trying to brush it off. Pretending it doesn't sting.

She looks at me-calm, quiet. Her voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to.

"No," she says, soft but sharp. "Just hollow."

The words hit harder than they should. Not because she yelled. Not because she was cruel. But because she meant it. Because maybe... it's true. And that truth sinks into my chest, heavy and cold, like a weight I can't shake off.

I look away, back at the skyline. Her words stick to the inside of my chest like ice.

She stands. "Wear the black Armani. It makes you look less... dangerous."

"I am dangerous," I say softly.

"That's the point." She smooths the front of her coat. "But charm them first. Ruin them later."

She left my office without saying goodbye. She shuts the door behind her with a soft click that feels louder than a gunshot.

Thoughts claw at the inside of my skull.

She has every right because I do owe her. Every building, every deal, every sleepless night trying to outmaneuver the men she put in place to watch me-it's all part of her game. I just pretend I'm the one playing it.

The city outside sparkles in the soft morning light, distant and indifferent.

Just like me.

I rest my forehead against the cold glass, letting the chill press against my skin. It's strange-almost soothing. Like it quiets everything inside for a moment, stilling the chaos I can't escape.

****

2 hours later.

The conference room is full of sharks. Smiles that don't reach eyes. Suits tailored to hide weapons-legal, financial, social. I sit at the head of the table like I belong here.

I don't.

My assistant read the agenda. I nod at the right times, say what I'm supposed to in a calm, flat voice. It's all an act. They don't want a real person-they want a legend. Wilfred Johnson. The genius boy who became a CEO, smart, cold and hollow.

Vivienne's son.

I feel her shadow even when she's not here.

I pretend it doesn't bother me.

But every now and then, I wonder what it would feel like to burn the whole thing down. Just... torch it. No more glass walls, no more boardrooms, no more suits sharks and deals I didn't ask to make.

Just silence.

Freedom.

Something real.

But I'm not built for that. I'm built for this-slick smiles, calculated pauses and control.

Especially control.

****

Back in my office.

I sit alone again. Just staring at the invitation Vivienne left on my desk. Thick white card, Gold trim, Clean, and fancy.

It reeks of manipulation.

I flip it over. There's no note or personal message. Just an address, a time, and what they want.

I light a cigarette. I don't even smoke anymore, but the burn in my throat feels honest.

There's a photo on the desk-me and her, years ago. I was younger. Thought I had power just because I had drive.

She's got her hand on my shoulder in the photo.

It looks like love if you squint hard enough.

I tap ash into the tray, lean back, and let the smoke blur the edges of the frame.

She'll get her way because she always does.

But someday.. I'll stop playing nice.

And when I do-this glass tower won't survive it