Gideon held the majority shares, but none of the ego required for the CEO title. Let someone else handle the press, the reports, the boardroom parade. His place was at the helm, but behind the curtain.
Quiet power suited him. He didn’t chase credit. He controlled outcomes. While others postured, Gideon played the long game. He selected the sharpest minds and steadiest hands, then gave them room to operate. Micromanagement reeked of insecurity. Real control moved in silence, shaping decisions without ever clamoring for attention.
The title wasn’t the power. He was. And everyone in the building knew it.
He moved through the marble-lined lobby with unhurried precision, his polished oxfords striking a steady beat. The receptionist nodded, smile taut with professionalism. But beneath it, a flicker of nerves he was used to provoking.
He didn’t demand presence. He simply had it.
The elevator whispered closed behind him, sealing him in with only his reflection and the rising hum of memory. This space had carried countless negotiations, victories, betrayals. He preferred the view from above, where the whole field lay visible—every move calculated before it was made.
His grandfather, Richard Blackwell II, had built his business on integrity and his vision for legacy.
His father, Richard III, had corrupted it. Smoothed the edges into something polished, but hollow. Charismatic rot wrapped in charm.
Gideon was neither. And yet—both lived inside him. He carried both brilliance and burden into every decision.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened to a floor humming with quiet intensity. The staff moved with the kind of purpose born not of routine, but of fear—or reverence. Voices dropped as he passed.
He walked past the CEO’s office without pause. That chair could’ve been his once. But titles were for people who needed to be seen.
The boardroom awaited. Glass walls. Steel trim. Power woven into every line.
As he entered, conversation halted mid-sentence. Not fear. Not entirely. Just the quiet awareness of stakes rising. Gideon took his place at the head of the table. Not because it was designated, but because no one else would dare sit there.
His eyes swept the room, landing briefly on Daniel Cole, already seated, tablet in hand, who was clearly suppressing a grin.
Dan. Chief Financial Strategist. Unbothered genius. Gideon’s closest ally.
“Let’s begin,” Gideon said, voice smooth as glass, sharp as a blade.
The air shifted. Focus tightened. This wasn’t business. This was legacy.
By late afternoon,the boardroom’s heat had cooled. The spectacle was over, replaced now by something quieter: a private room, tucked out of view, where real strategy unfolded.
Mahogany. Leather. A skyline knifing across floor-to-ceiling windows.
Dan leaned back, tablet throwing faint light across his open collar. His blazer was effortless, his demeanor even more so.
He lived in the numbers the way Gideon lived in control.
Where Gideon wielded force like a scalpel, Dan moved with the inevitability of gravity.
Together, they were perfectly calibrated tension. Order and precision.
Gideon didn’t trust easily.
Dan had earned it anyway.
“You’re late,” Dan said, adjusting figures with a flick of his stylus.
“I’m exact,” Gideon replied, smoothing his cufflinks as he took the seat acrossfrom him.
Dan slid a folder across the table. “Parker’s playing games. New terms came in.”
Gideon opened it, flipping pages with quiet intensity. His gaze scanned the proposal, instincts three steps ahead.
“They’re bluffing,” he said. “Offer a minor concession. Let them think they’re winning. They’ll sign by morning.”
