" The Weight of Control"

The weight of power did not settle easily on Lucas's shoulders. It bore down like an iron yoke, relentless and suffocating.

He sat in his office, the sprawling skyline of the city stretching behind him, but the view held no comfort. The desk before him was buried in reports—red-inked warnings of declining profits, missed projections, and investors pulling out.

A headache throbbed behind his temple. His fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair as he scanned the latest financial breakdown. Another quarter in the red. Another drop in stock value. He gritted his teeth.

"How the hell is this happening?" he muttered under his breath.

The Smith Co. Limited he had fought to claim was slipping through his fingers like sand.

The sharp click of heels against marble announced Maria's arrival. She entered without knocking, draped in an expensive black dress, confidence oozing from every movement.

"You look like hell," she noted with an amused smirk, taking a seat across from him.

Lucas exhaled sharply. "The company's bleeding. We're losing clients, investors, employees—"

"They're cowards." Maria dismissed with a wave of her manicured hand. "Let them go. Smith Co. doesn't need weaklings."

Lucas shot her a glare. "We need results. We need stability. And right now, I don't see either."

Maria leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Then stop playing nice. You wanted power? Then use it. Crush the defectors. Show them you're in charge."

His jaw clenched.

He had done exactly that. After taking over, he had fired key executives who dared question his leadership. He had reshaped policies, cut benefits, and implemented changes that he believed would solidify his control. But instead of securing the company's future, it was unraveling before him. Employees whispered in hallways. Board members hesitated when they spoke. The air was thick with unease, with doubt.

"You told me taking down my brother would give me everything," he said slowly. "But all I see is chaos."

Maria's gaze darkened. "Because you haven't gone far enough." She leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fear is a tool. Use it. Fire more. Silence the weak. And as for those investors? If they won't stay, make them regret leaving."

A muscle in Lucas's jaw twitched.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that force would solve everything. But the deeper he sank into this power, the more unstable it became. His father's legacy, the empire his family had built, was crumbling under his reign.

And worst of all—

He was losing control.

A sharp knock broke through the thick tension.

One of his assistants, a nervous-looking man in his early thirties, stepped in. "Sir, the finance department is requesting an emergency meeting."

Lucas exhaled through his nose. "What now?"

"The reports show another major loss this quarter," the assistant hesitated, "and…the board is requesting an explanation."

Maria scoffed. "Tell them to be patient. Rome wasn't built in a day."

The assistant swallowed. "Sir…they're saying if losses continue, they'll be forced to reconsider leadership."

The words sent a jolt through Lucas. He straightened in his chair, eyes narrowing. "They wouldn't dare."

The assistant looked down, avoiding his gaze. "Some of them are already discussing a vote."

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Maria's expression twisted into something cold and dangerous. "So that's how they want to play it." She turned to Lucas, voice sharp as a knife. "You need to act—now. Before they make their move."

Lucas's grip on the desk tightened. His pulse hammered in his ears.

For the first time since taking over Smith Co., a sliver of something foreign slithered into his chest.

Doubt.

But he crushed it just as quickly. He would not lose. He had come too far, burned too many bridges, to let this empire slip from his grasp.

His lips curled into something cold.

"Call the board," he ordered. "I'll remind them who's in charge."

Maria's smile was all teeth. "That's more like it."

The conference room was silent, the air thick with unspoken tension. A long, polished table stretched between them, lined with executives whose faces were drawn tight with barely concealed apprehension. Some sat with their hands clasped, others with arms crossed, waiting for Lucas to begin.

Lucas leaned back in the leather chair at the head of the table, one hand drumming against the armrest. His sharp suit was immaculate, but the shadow beneath his eyes betrayed something deeper—exhaustion, or perhaps something more volatile. He exuded confidence, but it was the kind born from sheer will, not certainty. Maria sat beside him, her gaze like steel, daring anyone to challenge them.

"We're restructuring," Lucas announced, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "This company has been stagnant for too long, bogged down by outdated policies and complacency. That changes today."

Murmurs rippled through the room. A few executives exchanged uneasy glances, while others remained impassive, masks of professionalism in place.

"Smith Jr. built this company with long-term vision," an older board member, Mr. Calloway, spoke up. His voice was firm, but cautious. "We thrived because we invested in our people, in sustainable growth. These abrupt changes you're implementing—cutting departments, slashing budgets, firing senior staff—this isn't restructuring, Lucas. This is sabotage."

Lucas's jaw tensed. "Sabotage?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "You think I'm sabotaging my own company? No, Calloway. I'm fixing the mess my dear brother left behind. You all think his way was the only way. But look where it got us—stuck in old-fashioned thinking while competitors evolve. We need to be ruthless."

Maria smirked, arms folded as she observed the room, watching the shifting expressions like a predator studying its prey.

"Ruthless?" Another executive, Ms. Patel, interjected, her voice clipped. "You mean reckless. You fired the head of R&D without a replacement. You cut marketing, then blamed sales for underperformance. You're making impulsive decisions, and it's bleeding us dry."

A few nods of agreement followed, but others remained quiet. Some knew better than to challenge him directly.

Lucas's lips curled into a thin smile. "Anyone who doesn't believe in this vision is free to walk out."

The words hung in the air, a challenge more than an invitation.

Mr. Calloway exhaled slowly, pushing his chair back. "Then I won't waste any more time here." He stood, gathering his papers. A few others hesitated before following his lead, their gazes heavy with disappointment.

Maria chuckled under her breath as she watched them leave. "Good riddance," she muttered.

But for every executive who left, others remained seated, their reasons more complex. Some needed their paychecks. Others feared uncertainty. A few still clung to the hope that Lucas could steer the company forward, even if his grip on the wheel seemed unsteady.

Lucas watched them go, but rather than doubt, there was something else in his expression—an eerie satisfaction. Let them leave. This was his company now, and he would run it his way, no matter the cost.

The boardroom was silent, the kind of silence that carried weight. Heavy. Suffocating. The long mahogany table gleamed under the harsh overhead lights, reflecting the tension that thickened the air. Lucas sat at the head, fingers steepled, gaze sharp as he observed the faces before him. Some defiant. Some uncertain. Others carefully blank.

The quarterly reports were spread across the table, the red ink a glaring contrast to the pristine white pages. The numbers didn't lie. Profits were down. Employee turnover was rising. And yet, Lucas's expression betrayed nothing but cold confidence.

Maria sat beside him, an ever-present shadow, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the armrest of her chair. She didn't need to speak; her presence alone sent a message. A silent vulture circling, waiting to pick apart the weak.

Jonathan, the company's CFO, cleared his throat. "Mr. Lucas, we need to talk about the direction the company is taking. We've lost three major clients this quarter alone. Employees are resigning faster than we can replace them. And the media is starting to—"

Lucas held up a hand, cutting him off. "The media," he repeated, voice smooth yet sharp. "They'll write whatever narrative they want. And as for the employees—" he exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Loyalty is a privilege. If they walk away so easily, they were never truly committed."

A murmur rippled through the room. Some exchanged wary glances. Others looked away.

"And what about the investors?" Another board member, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, spoke up. "They're watching this closely. If they sense instability, we risk losing more than just employees."

Lucas smirked. "Then we show them strength. Restructuring is necessary. Cut the dead weight. Any department that isn't performing? Downsized. Bonuses? Revoked until further notice. If they want stability, they'll find it under my leadership, not in pandering to weaklings who can't keep up."

A heavy silence settled over the room.

"Mr. Lucas ," Jonathan spoke again, carefully choosing his words. "This isn't just about cutting costs. It's about maintaining the integrity of Smith Co. Limited. Your brother built a company that valued its people. If we continue down this path—"

Lucas's palm slammed against the table, the sound echoing. "My brother is dead." His voice was sharp, final. "And I am the one in charge now. So unless you're offering solutions rather than sentimental drivel, I suggest you stay silent."

Jonathan's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

A younger executive, barely in his thirties, rose from his seat. "I won't be part of this." His voice was steady, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight of his decision. "Smith Co. was built on integrity. This? This is a sinking ship."

Lucas barely spared him a glance. "Then go."

A beat passed. Then another. The man exhaled sharply and walked out, his footsteps firm against the marble floor. A second later, another executive stood, shaking his head before following.

Maria chuckled under her breath. "Look at them. Sheep."

Lucas tilted his head, watching the door close behind them. Then, slowly, he turned his attention back to the room. "Anyone else?"

No one moved. Not out of loyalty. But out of necessity.

"Good." He leaned back, satisfied. "Then let's proceed. We have a company to run."

And with that, the meeting continued, the cracks in Smith Co. Limited deepening, unseen by the man who believed he still held all the power.

The meeting ended, leaving behind a suffocating tension that clung to Lucas like a second skin. He stormed out of the boardroom, his steps heavy with frustration, his mind churning with silent fury. The moment he stepped into his car, he slammed the door shut, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The city lights blurred past as he drove home, but he barely noticed. All he saw was defiance—on the faces of those who had dared to question him.

By the time he arrived home, the air inside the house felt wrong—too quiet, too distant. Margaret looked up from the couch, her expression cautious. She knew that look in his eyes. It meant trouble. Mark was at the dining table, books spread out in front of him, but the way his shoulders tensed made it clear he was listening.

Lucas shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside carelessly. "What the hell is this?" His voice cut through the air like a whip. "Why is he sitting there like a damn commoner? Where's his tutor?"

Margaret straightened. "It's late, Lucas. He already studied for hours—"

"Not enough!" Lucas barked, stepping toward the table. "Get up, Mark. Do it again. You think the world will hand you power? You think you'll sit on my throne without working for it?" He grabbed the nearest book, slamming it shut with a sharp snap. "Do it again. And this time, don't waste my money with stupid mistakes."

Mark flinched but didn't argue. He cast a brief glance at his mother, but Margaret said nothing. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers gripping the armrest of the couch. Lucas's fury was a storm—fighting it meant getting swept up in the destruction.

Satisfied with Mark's silence, Lucas turned his attention to Margaret. "And you," he sneered. "Sitting there like a goddamn statue. What do you even do in this house? Wait for me to bring in money while you sit uselessly?"

Margaret's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. There was nothing to say. She had long since learned that words did nothing against Lucas's rage. He wanted something to blame, and tonight, it was them.

Scoffing, Lucas turned away. "This family is pathetic." He stormed into his study, slamming the door behind him. The lock clicked, sealing him away from the people he despised.

The room was dimly lit, the desk cluttered with documents he had no patience for. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a glass with shaking hands. The burn of alcohol did little to soothe the fire raging in his chest. He paced the room, muttering under his breath, replaying the board meeting in his mind. Those cowards. Those traitors. They didn't understand what it took to run an empire.

He downed another drink, then another, until the walls blurred, and the room tilted. His breaths were heavy, uneven. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of his desk, his own reflection in the glass of his bookshelf staring back at him—a man who was losing everything.

"Ungrateful bastards," he hissed, slamming his glass down. The whiskey spilled over the table, dripping onto the floor, but he didn't care. He barely even noticed.

All he saw was betrayal. Everywhere.

And it made his blood boil.

Lucas groaned as his eyes fluttered open, the dull morning light slicing through the curtains like a blade. His head throbbed, the sharp, merciless pounding of a night drowned in whiskey and bitter thoughts. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol, stale cigars, and the faint remnants of sweat. He shifted in the chair, his limbs heavy, stiff from sleeping hunched over the cluttered desk.

The study was a battlefield of his own making—empty bottles lined the edge of the desk, some tipped over, their contents staining important documents. Crumpled papers littered the floor, evidence of his frustration. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and his shirt was wrinkled, the first few buttons undone. He exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to smother the pain drilling through his skull.

A sharp rap on the door sent a spike of irritation through him. He forced his body upright, blinking against the light.

"Breakfast is ready," Margret's voice came from the other side, calm, measured—void of warmth.

Lucas didn't respond immediately. His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry with the aftertaste of whiskey. He pushed himself up from the chair, steadying himself as the room swayed slightly. Without another word, he strode out, his movements sluggish but heavy with irritation.

The dining room was neat, orderly—everything Lucas demanded of his household. The scent of fresh bread and eggs wafted through the air, but it only turned his stomach. Margret had already set the table, her hands moving methodically as she placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of his usual seat. Across from him, Mark sat stiff-backed, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes downcast.

Lucas took his seat, fingers curling around the coffee mug. He took a sip, the bitterness cutting through the lingering taste of last night's mistakes. His bloodshot gaze flicked to Mark.

"Did you finish reviewing the materials I gave you?"

Mark hesitated, barely perceptible, but Lucas caught it.

"Yes, but—"

"But what?" Lucas's voice turned sharp, his patience thinning.

Mark swallowed, his shoulders tensing. "Some of the concepts were difficult. I was going to review them again today—"

"You should already be ahead of the others your age," Lucas cut him off, setting the cup down with a dull clatter. "If you want to inherit this company one day, you can't afford to fall behind."

Mark lowered his gaze further, his fingers tightening under the table.

"Do you understand that?" Lucas pressed, his tone hard, unforgiving.

"I understand."

"No. I don't think you do." Lucas leaned forward slightly, his gaze drilling into his son. "You waste time sleeping when you should be studying. If you fail, you'll be just like them—those weak-willed fools who walked out of my company. Is that what you want? To be a disappointment?"

The words cut deeper than any slap. Mark's chest tightened, but he refused to let the emotion show. Across the table, Margret stilled, her expression unreadable, her silence absolute.

Lucas finished his coffee in one long gulp, then stood abruptly, adjusting his tie with sharp, jerky movements.

"I'll be in my study," he announced, as if the conversation was over, as if his words hadn't left cracks in the fragile morning. "Get to work, Mark. No excuses."

Mark gave a small nod, his appetite long gone.

Margret silently gathered the dishes, her movements steady, resigned. Lucas strode out without another glance, his heavy footsteps echoing through the cold, hollow house.

A door slammed shut.

Mark exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly as he stared at his untouched plate. Another day. Another battle. And there was no escape.