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They may hear my voice.
They may feel my wrath.
But they will not see my face.
They don’t need to see my face.
No one needs to see the grotesque beast of a billionaire I’ve become.
It’s bad enough that those on my staff have no choice.
I refuse to become the public’s mockery, to make a mockery, of my family’s legacy simply because those with nothing better to do want to see the mogul behind the money.
The monster.
It may be my name on the company logo, but nowhere in the bylaws does it require it to be my face.
I checked.
And then had Harry Hawthorne – who is now head of all legal – check.
And then add in a clause for reinforcement.
“You’re right…” J.T. slowly nods and readjusts his striped tie, golden bronze fingers fiddling longer than necessary out of irritation. “Bruce ran Wayne Enterprises a lot like you run Wilcox Enterprises.”
“I like to think I run mine better.”
“However, he did that to help fund his bat lifestyle.” It’s his turn to fight a smirk. “His bat lifestyle, which literally saved lives, including his own.”
My life doesn’t need to be saved.
I still loathe the fact it was the only one that survived a decade ago.
I don’t deserve to live.
I deserved to die yet was forced to live.
In the somber shadows.
Cold nights.
Haunted mornings.
I may be alive, but I repeat.
I do not deserve to live.
I am here solely to keep their lineage going.
The memory of them pristine.
Due to the desk phone ringing, I don’t have to provide a rebuttal.
Not that I was going to.
One swift push of the button precedes me answering, “Yes?”
“Wes,” Juan Carlos – affectionally called Lucky for as long as I can remember – the head chef of my estate, cautiously begins, “I know you’re in your meeting, so I’m sorry to interrupt-”
