Chapter 5 The Cost To Be the Boss

The entry door to Victor's penthouse closed behind him with nothing more than a whisper, engineered perfection, a pressure-sealed edge gliding on a pneumatic cylinder calibrated to the weight of a breath. The moment it sealed, the cacophony of the outside world vanished, leaving him in a vacuum of his own design.

He placed his briefcase on the built-in console of polished ebony, his fingertips lingering on the leather handle. The foyer greeted him like an antechamber of negative space; pristine white marble that felt cool even through the soles of his shoes, indirect lighting that cast no shadows, and a single kinetic sculpture rotating in perpetual, hypnotic motion. The piece was crafted from titanium and obsidian, materials that shouldn't dance together but did, under his patronage.

Nothing here existed by accident. Each object, every plane and curve, survived because Victor had permitted it.

He loosened his tie, just enough to feel the pressure ease from his throat and walked through the glass-walled living space. The panoramic view exposed the city's heart like an anatomical model, buildings and streets forming arteries and chambers of concrete and light.

At the wet bar, Victor selected the Macallan 1926 60-year, a ritual more than a choice. The crystal decanter felt substantial in his hand, its weight a comfort as he poured two fingers into a handblown tumbler. Amber liquid caught the ambient light, refracting it into sharp orange slivers that danced across the quartz countertop. The first sip burned without apology, a sensation he welcomed as it traveled down his throat and bloomed in his chest.

"Lights, sixty percent, " he murmured, and the apartment responded, dimming to the exact specification he preferred at this hour.

He moved to his workspace, a desk of smoked glass and brushed steel. No papers scattered, no pens uncapped, no evidence of human disorder. Even the laptop sat closed, its surface wiped free of fingerprints after each use. Victor ran his index finger along the edge of the desk, feeling the perfect seam where materials met.

He opened the day's files; acquisition proposals with projected margins in red and green, legal correspondence marked with timestamps to the second, a report on industrial espionage attempts against three subsidiaries. Everything was marked with his personal system of blue and silver tabs, color-coded for urgency and potential threat.

Victor always dealt with the most difficult matters first, a principle that had served him well, but tonight, he set aside one folder for last. It was thin, just a few sheets printed on the soft, toothy stock that signaled utmost secrecy. The texture beneath his fingertips felt different, almost intimate. He recognized the logo in the corner; Whitley Partners, embossed rather than printed, a detail most would miss.

His pulse slowed as he read the letter. It was nothing but corporate pleasantries, a quarterly summary sent to every client on their roster. The language was generic, offering reassurances of growth, partnership, loyalty. But the signature at the bottom, that lazy, looping "M" that had once closed every note, every contract, every promise, felt like an old wound reopened with surgical precision.

The scotch in his glass caught the light again, drawing his attention to the tremor in his hand, barely perceptible, but there. A betrayal of the body that mirrored a deeper one.

"Damn you, Maxwell, " he whispered, the words disappearing into the filtered air.

Ten years ago, he and Maxwell Smith had built a startup from nothing but ambition and caffeine. Maxwell had vision and reckless charm; Victor had execution and the patience to wait for precisely the right moment to strike. They'd been inseparable, professionally symbiotic. He was both Victor's mentor and friend.

It was late autumn when he found out. The boardroom was much smaller then, less glass, more cheap oak veneer and recycled carpet that scratched against expensive shoes, but the shape of betrayal was the same, a table, a challenge, and Victor at the head. He confronted Maxwell alone after the others had gone, the way you do with someone you still hope to forgive.

"I've seen the transfer records, " Victor had said, his voice steady despite the rage building behind his ribs. "You've been siphoning development funds to a shell company for months."

Maxwell didn't deny it. He shrugged, poured himself a drink from the cheap bottle they kept for clients who wouldn't know better, and said, "You would have done the same if the numbers were reversed."

Victor remembered every detail with cruel clarity; the cheap vodka that smelled like industrial cleaner, the click of the glass as Maxwell set it down, the way sunlight filtered through the blinds and caught in Maxwell's hair, making it look almost white at the temples. And the chill, not from the room but from the realization that he'd been outplayed by someone he trusted. That betrayal had a taste, like metal and ash, that lingered for months afterward.

He'd made a decision that night; never to allow proximity again, not in business, not in anything that mattered. He would cultivate respect, leverage, obligation, but never intimacy. The lesson had served him well, building his empire one calculated move at a time.

Victor downed the rest of the scotch in a single swallow and closed the folder with a soft, final snap. The tremor in his hand had vanished, replaced by the old, familiar steadiness that came with resolution.

Outside the window, the city lights ignited in neat grids, each pinpoint representing ambition, desperation, or some combination of both. His kingdom, mapped and measured, full of souls as hungry as he had ever been.

There was no room here for nostalgia. Only memory, harnessed and weaponized, propelling him into the next maneuver.

The phone in his pocket vibrated once. He withdrew it, glancing at the screen.

A text from Derek, "The Pit confirms your reservation."

Victor quickly texted back, "Great, tell Stephen to go in my place and perform as usual. Nothing too wild, just enough to keep up pretenses."

Derek, "Are you sure, sir. Tonight there will be something happening next door that might peak your interest."

Victor, "Really? I'm intrigued. Spill it."

"A showcase from an up and coming jeweler, Elise Monroe. Apparently she is dating your nephew."

Victor knew the name but he never paid too much attention to his nephew's personal affairs. It wasn't until his eyes fell on one of the folders lying on his desk.

Victor's mouth curved slightly. "Change of plans, I'll appear in person, " he murmured, typing a brief acknowledgment.

He wiped the glass clean with a microfiber cloth kept specifically for that purpose, returned the tumbler to the bar, and reset the space for tomorrow. Every action precise, every movement economical.

A final glance at the city, a silent toast to the endless game, then he turned his back on the view and moved toward his bedroom. The lights dimmed further with each step he took, as if the penthouse itself was breathing in time with his retreat.

In the darkness of the hallway, he paused, remembering the name from Derek's message. Monroe. He pulled the file open and read more about Elise's designs.

"Let's see what you're made of, Elise Monroe, " he said to the empty corridor, his voice barely audible even to himself.