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I let Payton down.
I toss back the rest of the whisky in my glass, then walk across the floor of my penthouse and pour myself another one.
My phone beeps.
Again.
I ignore it.
Again.
You never have to see me again.
I take another big sip.
I told you I’d get fired, and you didn’t listen. God, you are so selfish.
I glance down at the bottle of Macallan and carry it over to the sofa, placing it on the coffee table in front of me. Why waste precious energy walking back and forth across the room? I know I’m going to drink the entire bottle.
I fucked up.
I know I did.
I’m just not sure what it is I fucked up the most. I’m devastated about the job. But not as much as I thought I would be.
I never expected to take possession of it for at least another ten or fifteen years.
Do I actually want to be CEO of an enormous company right now?
I love marketing. I’m enjoying having a real and direct impact on the sales. Working with my team and the agency to create amazing campaigns that are blowing our competitors away.
As I sit with my head in my hands, I think about what is actually important.
Not what I think I should want.
They are two different things.
Was I just being an egotistical asshole?
Did I think my family and those I work with in business would see me as a failure if I wasn’t successful in taking on my father's role?
Yes.
Yes, it would’ve fucking hurt my pride.
Even though I’m only twenty-four. I hate that my age plays a part and I’m seen as not capable.
My head snaps around as I hear my door open.
“Atlas, fuck off,” I grunt and toss back more Macallan.
I hear the keys drop on my kitchen counter and lean back on the cushions with a moan.
“Fine, let’s get this over with.”
When I see the body walk into the living room, I tip my head. Ward lowers himself into the armchair across from me.
Shit.
