There's something about how people look at me when I walk into a room. They expect greatness, and I give it to them—delivered with a quiet confidence that speaks louder than any boast. People are funny like that. They see the suit, car, and money, and think they know me. They don't. But it doesn't matter. Not really.
I've always been aware of my effect on others—how a single glance can stop a conversation mid-sentence, how silence can make people squirm like words never could. I was taught to use that. My grandfather, Pablo Macray, didn't build an empire by playing by the rules. He built it by breaking them, by knowing the power of a well-timed word, a perfectly placed silence. I learned it from him, but I've refined it, made it my own. I've made sure that when I walk into a room, they know I'm not there to just occupy space. I'm there to take it.
Maybe it's the way I carry myself, or the sharpness in my eyes. They're not like anyone else's. Cold, calculating, always watching, always waiting. They're the eyes of a man who's had the luxury of growing up in a world where the rules bend, not break, at his will. I've been around power my whole life—born into it, raised in it. Pablo Macray was a god in this world, and Darion, my father, was his son. But I'm the one who'll take it all the way to the top. To places they couldn't even dream of.
People say I look like my father, but that's a half-truth. They see the stoicism, the poise, the quiet intensity, but they don't see the difference. They don't see that I've taken his brilliance and sharpened it into something more dangerous. Darion's instinct was to wait, to calculate the right moment to strike. My instinct? Strike first, always. And when they come for me, they'll realize they've already lost.
I stand outside my building, watching the valet take my keys. The car purrs in the background, sleek and black. People glance over, some recognize me, others just feel the presence. It's not something I have to demand. It's something I've earned. But that's the thing about power—it's like a shadow. It follows you, even when you try to escape it. I don't mind. I've never been one to hide from what I am. I give the doorman a nod as I walk past, and I can feel the weight of his eyes on me. It's the same wherever I go. People are always watching, waiting for me to slip up. But it never happened, not with me. I learned early on that mistakes aren't just inconvenient—they can be fatal.
Inside, the building's cool, quiet corridors greet me, and I head straight for the elevator. I don't need to think. I don't need to waste time pretending. Every step I take is purposeful, every decision calculated. There's no room for mistakes when you're running a billion-dollar empire. I've made my mark on the world, but I'm not done yet. The Macray name is built on more than just wealth; it's built on domination. Every move I make, every deal I close, adds another brick to the foundation. And right now, I'm standing on the edge of something that could be monumental. When I reach the boardroom, the team is already there, murmuring among themselves. I can feel the tension in the air, the anticipation of what's to come. They all know me, but none of them truly understands me. Not the way I understand them. I don't need to say much to make them understand who's in charge.
"Thomas," one of the senior partners, greets me, though his tone is more of a statement than a question. He's nervous. I can see it in the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He's waiting for me to speak first, but I will let them feel the weight of my silence. Let them wonder what's next.
I take my seat at the head of the table, pushing my jacket sleeves back as I do. The room falls silent. I've already decided the outcome of this meeting. These men think they can outplay me, that they can force my hand. They've underestimated me, as they always do. But I'll show them why they're wrong. The deal we're discussing isn't just another acquisition. It's a message. The last company that tried to play hardball with me is already out of business. And this one? Well, let's just say their future's already been sealed. I don't need to explain my strategy to them. They're here to follow my lead, not question it. The way I see it, they can either get on board or they'll get left behind. And in this world, getting left behind isn't just a setback—it's a death sentence.
The meeting begins, and I watch them all. Every move they make. Every word they speak. I'm listening, but I'm not just hearing them. I'm assessing, calculating. It's a game to me. One I've played my whole life. And I always win. As the discussions unfold, I don't feel the need to say much. A few well-placed questions. A couple of pointed glances. That's all it takes. They know better than to try to outsmart me. I can tell when they're bluffing, when they're hiding something. But I'm patient. I'll let them think they're getting the upper hand. Then, when the time is right, I'll swoop in and take what's mine.
People talk too much when they're nervous. I watched the man across the boardroom table draw in his pitch, trying to impress me with buzzwords and bloated projections. He was sweating through his suit. Bad tailoring, worse posture. Not exactly the kind of guy who should be talking to me about deals.
I leaned back in my chair, bored. My fingers tapped once, slow, controlled—on the polished table. Even though I'm interested, I wouldn't act like it. But I let him talk. Let him dig his own grave with every word.
"You're asking for too much equity," I said, finally. My voice never needed to be loud. It just cut. "And offering very little in terms of scalability. Do you think I'm stupid... or just generous?"
His mouth opened and closed like a fish yanked out of water. I tilted my head. His desperation was almost entertaining. I smoothed the front of my suit. "You have fifteen minutes to restructure the offer. After that, I walk—and believe me, you don't want me out." At last, one of them tries to push me into an offer. They think they're being bold. I let him finish, then I lean forward slightly, letting my gaze settle on him. It's the kind of look that could freeze blood.
"Is that your final offer?" I ask my voice low, steady. It's not a question—it's a statement. He hesitates, and I know I've got him.
He nods slowly. "Yes. That's the best we can do."
I smile, just enough to show my teeth. "I think you'll find that's not nearly enough."
There's a pause, a shift in the air. And then the real game begins.
The room watches as I close the deal, effortlessly, calmly, with the precision of a surgeon. The others are left with nothing but the echo of my success. When I leave, I know I've left them with a sense of awe. And fear. But mostly, respect. That's the real currency in my world.
I don't need to prove anything to anyone. Not anymore. But when I do show them, it's always on my terms.
And that's what makes me dangerous. Because the world is watching. And I know exactly what I want next.
Each day is a series of phases I have to navigate, like a chess game where the stakes are always higher, the moves always more deliberate. I've learned to move through it all with precision, to handle whatever comes at me with sharpness and control. But when it comes to unwinding, to cooling off—that's where I draw a hard line. I need that break. The world doesn't pause for anyone, but I refuse to let it drive me to the edge.
After a long day of high-stakes decisions, endless meetings, and corporate maneuvering, I know what I need. I need to shed the weight of my responsibilities. I need to escape for just a few hours. Brent Parker, my childhood friend, always knows how to drag me out of the chaos of work when I'm too deep into the grind.
Brent's always been the carefree one, the one who finds the fun even in the most serious of situations. He's a wealthy investor now, but his wealth hasn't changed his love for a good time. His phone calls are always a lifeline when I'm drowning in spreadsheets, corporate reports, and endless calls with my father, Darion.
"You need to get out of that penthouse, Thomas," he says every time. "Come on, I know the perfect spot to blow off some steam."
And so, after my last meeting, after I'd signed off on another set of deals that would only add more weight to the empire my grandfather, Pablo Macray, built—Brent called. I couldn't refuse.
"Alright, alright. Spin-Off Planet again?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. My penthouse was comfortable, but sometimes it felt too empty, too silent.
"Exactly," Brent replied with a grin in his voice. "You need this. Trust me."
Spin-Off Planet was the kind of club where the world's problems felt miles away. The kind of place where deals weren't just signed—they were made in the back rooms, where every conversation held a promise, a risk, and a reward. The place where high society and low-key criminals rubbed elbows and shared a drink.
Brent and I had a long history with the club. It wasn't just a nightclub—it was the arena for our darker deals. The ones that didn't make the headlines. The ones that built fortunes and destroyed lives.
When I walked in, the usual crowd was there—executives from rival companies, real estate moguls, and people who knew how to play the game without asking too many questions. I kept my profile low, always preferring the shadows where I could observe, listen, and plan.
The night passed as expected—endless conversations with people who had their agendas, deals that would make or break careers, and just enough alcohol to make the stakes feel lighter than they were. I talked to a few people, shook hands, and didn't get too close. As always, the tension of the night was thick, but I wore my mask well.
Around 12 a.m., the last of the lingering conversations began to fade. Brent had already disappeared to the other side of the club, no doubt to chase girls or a new prospect. But I was tired, drained by the constant balancing act of being both the face of Macray Enterprises and the son of Darion Macray, the man who had built this empire and expected me to carry it forward—without fail.
By the time I made it back to my penthouse, I knew I needed to shut it down. The day's weight, the constant pressure, the expectations—they were too much. So, I did what I always do when the stress threatens to swallow me whole.
I called my girl, Mira
Mira was the kind of girl who liked money. A lot of it. And she liked a soft life, the kind of life that was supported by the right connections and the right men. Mira wasn't in it for love or anything as complicated as that. No, Mira was all about the lifestyle—the designer clothes, the expensive cars, the parties.
She was a gold digger, plain and simple. I didn't mind. She didn't need to pretend, and neither did I. We had an understanding—an arrangement that suited us both. No strings, no commitment, just two people getting what they needed. When we first met, we had a conversation about it. She wasn't looking for a fairy tale or a future. She was looking for luxury, for a life that men like me could provide. And I didn't mind. We agreed to keep things open. I never asked for anything more, and she never offered anything less. She understood my world—how I needed my space, how I couldn't afford distractions. She was perfect for what I needed when the pressure mounted.
It wasn't personal. It never was. It was just an easy release, a way to shed the day's grind and escape the suffocating grip of my family's demands. No commitments. No strings. Just a brief, fleeting moment where I could let go of the world. I wasn't looking for affection—just a moment of control, something that didn't demand anything from me.
Afterward, I felt… lighter. For a moment, at least.
But I had a rule. A hard, non-negotiable rule. No girl ever stayed the night. That wasn't the kind of life I led. I wasn't interested in entanglements, in attachments. My life was too full of responsibilities, of things I had to do, to allow any of them to blur the line between work and personal life.
So, as always, I escorted her out, gave her a generous tip, and watched as she disappeared into the night, a momentary distraction that I could forget as easily as it came.
I didn't need anything more. And tomorrow, the grind would start all over again.
But for now, I would take a breath. I would step away from the pressure. Even if just for a little while.