Chapter 3: Lights, Cameras, Doubt

Alex had never seen so many cameras in his life.

They lined the back of the room in neat, threatening rows—tripods, microphones, wires coiled like snakes. Dozens of reporters sat in crisp chairs facing the long table up front, where a sign read: Dawson Consortium – Emergency Shareholder Announcement. The energy in the air was electric, buzzing with a mix of confusion, suspicion, and barely contained excitement.

He stood just offstage behind the velvet curtain, palms sweaty despite the air conditioning. A soft buzz filled his ears, like the silence before a storm.

"Are you ready?" Elizabeth asked, her eyes scanning a clipboard.

"No," Alex admitted.

She glanced at him. "That's fine. Most people aren't, the first time."

"I feel like I'm about to be thrown into a lion pit."

Elizabeth smirked. "It's not far off."

Behind them, Callum adjusted his tie and whispered to someone on his earpiece. A few legal advisors were flipping through folders, prepping for questions. Everyone looked calm. Polished. Experienced.

And then there was Alex—dressed like a million bucks, sure, but still feeling like the guy who'd gotten laughed out of a banquet hall twenty-four hours ago.

"Just speak clearly, stay composed," Elizabeth said. "You don't need to be perfect. You just need to show them you belong."

"That's the thing," Alex muttered. "I'm not sure I do."

She gave him a sharp look. "Then fake it until they believe you do."

The host stepped onto the stage and tapped the mic.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you for your patience. We understand today's announcement has raised some questions. You are about to meet the new acting CEO and majority heir of the Dawson Consortium."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd.

Alex's heart thudded in his chest.

"Please welcome Mr. Alexander Thompson."

Showtime.

He took a deep breath and walked onto the stage.

Flashbulbs went off instantly. A dozen cameras clicked in rapid succession. Reporters leaned forward. Some actually gasped.

He sat down at the center of the table. Elizabeth and Callum flanked him on either side like anchors. A mic waited in front of him, and beyond that—a storm of questions waiting to erupt.

The host continued, "Mr. Thompson will read a brief statement before taking selected questions."

Alex picked up the paper they'd written for him earlier. The words felt stiff and rehearsed, but he started reading anyway.

"My name is Alexander Thompson. As of this morning, I have officially assumed the role of CEO and primary shareholder of the Dawson Consortium. I understand the weight of this position and the responsibilities that come with it. While I am new to this world, I intend to honor the legacy of my late father, James Dawson, and lead this empire with both vision and integrity."

He paused. Then looked up.

The silence hung.

He swallowed. "That's it."

The host nodded. "We'll now open the floor for questions."

Hands shot up like fireworks.

A woman in a red blazer stood. "Lisa Marks, CNBC. Mr. Thompson, with all due respect, you don't have a business background. How do you expect to run a global corporation with zero experience?"

Alex gripped the edge of the table. He could feel everyone watching.

"I don't," he said honestly. "I don't expect to run it alone. That's why I have people like Ms. Vaughn and Mr. Brand. But I do intend to learn, fast—and make decisions that align with the kind of leader I want to be. One who doesn't forget what it's like to be on the outside."

Another hand shot up.

"Tyrel Chen, Financial Post. There are rumors that other Dawson family members are contesting the will. How secure is your position?"

Elizabeth leaned forward. "Legally airtight. Mr. Dawson's instructions were crystal clear."

A reporter toward the back called out, "Is it true you were working as a food delivery driver just days ago?"

A few chuckles spread through the room. Alex's face heated.

"Yes," he said. "That's true."

A beat of silence.

"Any regrets?" the same reporter asked.

Alex shook his head. "Not really. I saw a lot of things working those jobs—how people struggle, how they hustle just to survive. It taught me more about life than any boardroom ever could."

Another question flew out—sharp, impatient.

"Do you think someone like you can actually hold power without being eaten alive?"

He looked at the man who asked it. He had slicked-back hair and a smug little smirk. Probably used to chewing up stories like Alex and spitting them out before lunch.

Alex leaned in, voice steady.

"Guess we'll find out."

The room fell into a quiet hum of impressed murmurs. Cameras clicked. Laptops clacked. Some of the smirks faded.

He answered five more questions, most of them tense, a few borderline insulting, but he stayed upright. Calm. Honest. He didn't pretend to be something he wasn't.

And somehow, that seemed to work.

Afterward, the trio exited through a side hall. As soon as the door closed behind them, Alex let out a long breath and slumped against the wall.

"Well," he muttered, "I didn't pass out. That's something."

Elizabeth smiled slightly. "You did better than expected. They were circling like sharks, and you didn't bleed."

Callum checked his phone. "You're already trending."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Good trending or bad?"

"Both," Callum said. "Some people are calling you a Cinderella story. Others think this is a publicity stunt."

He sighed. "Of course."

Elizabeth turned serious again. "We've scheduled a tour of the headquarters this afternoon. You'll need to meet the division heads and give a short internal address to the senior staff."

"You're kidding."

"Afraid not. Welcome to the job."

Alex rubbed his eyes. "Do I at least get lunch first?"

Callum handed him a protein bar. "That is lunch."

The headquarters was a skyscraper downtown with tinted windows and a private elevator. Inside, everyone wore expensive suits and walked like they were on a mission to conquer the world. The tension was so thick you could feel it between your teeth.

Alex stepped into the boardroom and faced two dozen executives. All of them older. Polished. Cold. Many of them had likely been waiting to inherit the throne themselves.

The introductions were stiff. The smiles were forced.

He gave a short speech—nothing dramatic, just a few honest words about responsibility, gratitude, and the future. Some nodded politely. Others didn't even try to hide their doubt.

Afterward, one of the men—a senior VP named Howard Crane—pulled him aside near the windows.

"Mr. Thompson," he said, "I respect the board's decision, but if you want to survive here, you're going to need more than good intentions."

Alex looked at him. "Is that advice or a threat?"

Howard smiled thinly. "Just a fact. You'll see soon enough. This world has teeth."

It was nearly nightfall when Alex returned to the estate. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed in the guest wing, barely noticing how soft the mattress was.

Everything was moving too fast.

One day ago, he was invisible. Now, the whole world had its eyes on him—and not all of them were friendly.

His phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number.

This time, it wasn't a text.

It was a voicemail.

He hesitated, then hit play.

A deep voice crackled through the speaker, distorted and slow.

"You don't belong in that seat, Alex. And if you don't step down… we'll make sure you never stand up again."

The message ended with silence.

Alex sat there, staring at the screen.

The seat wasn't even warm yet—and already, someone wanted him gone.