Chapter Two
I buy whomever I want. I crush whomever I please. Women? They're always on their knees, begging for my attention. But I don't care. I don't need them. They come, they go—just like my mother did. Replaceable.
"Son, I want to talk to you."
My father's voice came from behind me just as I reached for my suit jacket.
"Dad, I know what you want to say, and I'm already late," I muttered, checking my wristwatch. I had no patience for morning lectures.
"Just five minutes," he pressed, his voice carrying the weight of concern. "That's all I ask. Five minutes, and I'll be quick."
I sighed, turned halfway, and faced him. "Fine. Shoot."
He rubbed his forehead as though searching for the right words. "Son, you can't continue like this. This week alone, I counted three different mannerless ladies leaving this house at odd hours—or am I missing some? Is this place a home, or have you turned it into some sort of luxury chalet?"
His voice hardened. "Michael, settle down. You have what it takes to build a family, not just an empire. Find one woman and—"
I cut him off with a laugh, sharp and mocking. "Settle with one? You did that, Dad. And look at you now—lonely, bitter, and stuck with me. I'm your son and your wife, rolled into one. Tell me, how's that working out for you?"
His jaw clenched, but he didn't speak. I leaned closer, whispered into his ear with deliberate cruelty, "Maybe you should be the one searching for a wife. You need one more than I do." Then I turned on my heel, laughing to myself as I walked out for work.
"Good afternoon, boss."
The chorus follows me as I step into the glass doors of Kent Corporation. My Italian shoes strike the marble floor with authority, each step echoing power. Employees bow their heads, voices tight with respect—and fear.
The men stand straighter. The women… they always steal glances, lips parting, eyes following me as if I'm a forbidden dream. Their gazes bounce off my tailored suit, my watch worth their annual salaries, my cold eyes that never linger too long.
I don't acknowledge them.
They're irrelevant.
Almost immediately, a young woman breaks rank. She rushes toward me, clutching a folder against her chest like it's her lifeline.
"Sir, I've been waiting so long to meet you," she blurts, desperation spilling out of her trembling lips.
I don't slow down. My stride remains steady, my gaze fixed on the elevator ahead. But my voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"Didn't they tell you the rules at the gate?" I snap. "Applicants are not allowed to speak to me."
Her face pales, but she keeps moving beside me, trying to match my pace.
"I'm sorry, sir. I've applied so many times but I've never been considered. This was my only chance to see you—"
I stop, finally turning my head just enough to let her see the ice in my eyes.
"How many times?" I ask.
She swallows. "Ten… maybe more."
"Then make it twenty." My voice is sharp, final. "Because frankly, I don't employ women. They're unstable creatures—just like your shoes."
Her gaze drops to her heels, shame and humiliation clouding her eyes. I don't wait for her reaction. I step into the elevator and let the doors seal her out.
I don't feel guilty. Not even a little.
Hating women is like breathing for me—it's natural. They've never given me anything but abandonment, lies, and disappointment. But children? That's different. Children are pure. Innocent. They don't betray you.
That's why I make time for them.
Every day, before I lock myself in endless meetings, I stop by the workers' daycare inside the company. It's the only place where I allow myself to smile. The toddlers run toward me, their small arms wrapping around my legs, their laughter cutting through my darkness.
"Uncle Michael!" they giggle, climbing into my lap.
I sit with them, play with their toys, listen to their wild stories. For a few minutes, I'm not the ruthless Michael Kent who terrifies boardrooms. I'm just the man who loves children, because they never leave.
But outside those walls, my heart is ice again.
The day of interviews arrives. I hate interviews. A waste of my time. Still, I watch from my chair as the applicants file into the conference room.
Five of them. Four women. One man.
I already know who I'll hire.
"No. 1, step forward," I order, my voice echoing through the silence.
A woman steps nervously toward me, her resume shaking in her hands.
I take one look and fling her papers back across the table. "You're not qualified. You're fat."
Her mouth drops open. "Please, sir, I can—"
"Please, ma," I cut her off with mockery. "Next."
Another woman approaches. I don't even glance at her resume. "Your handwriting is sloppy. If you can't write properly, you can't work for me."
Her lips tremble. "But, sir—"
"Get out."
The next one tries to smile at me, batting her lashes. That only makes it worse. "Smile all you want. I don't employ women who think their faces are their CV."
Tears glisten in her eyes as she walks away.
By the time the last woman comes forward, she looks defeated before I even speak. I toss her file aside without opening it. "No."
Finally, the man steps forward. Clean suit. Firm posture. He doesn't flinch under my stare.
"You're hired," I say simply.
Gasps echo around the room, but I don't care. My word is law.
I rise from my chair, button my jacket, and walk out, leaving the rejected women behind with broken expressions. They'll curse me, cry, maybe even hate me. I don't care. Their tears mean nothing.
Because in my world, women will always be replaceable.