Ever wondered what it feels like to be on top of the world?
Well, I haven't. Because I'm already there.
Name's Logan Creed. Some call me a playboy. Others, a business tycoon. And depending on who you ask, a world-class asshole.
Personally, I prefer "Visionary." Has a better ring to it.
Right now, I'm lying in the presidential suite of the Azure Sky Hotel, city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold.
Two stunningly naked women sleeping beside me — one draped over my chest, the other tangled in silk sheets that definitely cost more than your car.
And people say money can't buy happiness.
Fucking liars. It can. Money can buy anything. And now I own everything. This city. The towers, the tech, the people. All mine.
And if that makes me a bastard — well, at least I'm a rich one.
The door suddenly bursts open.
My assistant — Mia? Maya? Whatever her name is — stumbles inside, clutching her tablet like it might save her soul. She's small, nervous, and already looks like she's regretting being alive this morning.
"I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Creed," she stammers. "But you have a meeting with the board in fifteen minutes."
I turn my head, slowly, like a lion spotting a mosquito. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
She freezes.
"No sir."
"Do you see what's happening here?" I gesture lazily to the bed. "You walk into my suite, uninvited, at eight in the morning while I'm recovering from a very productive night...and for what? To remind me of a meeting?"
Her throat bobs. "I—I sent reminders last night, and again this morning, sir—"
I laugh. Loudly. "Oh, so it's my fault now?"
Her eyes widen. "No, sir, I just—"
"Shut up." My tone drops an octave. "Do you even hear yourself? You work for me, not the other way around. Your entire existence revolves around making my life easier. And right now, you're failing spectacularly."
She's trembling. Actually trembling.
"Jesus," I mutter, standing up, completely naked, just to watch her squirm. She spins around so fast she nearly drops her tablet. "You'd think after working for the most powerful man in the city, you'd at least develop a spine."
"I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Creed. It won't happen again."
"Oh, it won't," I say flatly. "Because if you screw up one more time, I'll make sure your name is blacklisted from every major corporation within a hundred miles. You'll be fetching coffee at a gas station by next week. Got it?"
Her voice cracks. "Yes, sir."
"Good." I grab my watch off the nightstand. "Now, wake the girls, get them out, and for God's sake, don't ever walk into my room again without knocking. I don't care if the building's on fire. You wait. Understood?"
She nods, eyes glassy, and bolts out the door like she's escaping a war zone.
I smirk, pulling on my shirt. Third assistant this year. Weak people never last long around me.
Five minutes later, I'm in a tailored charcoal suit, hair perfect, ego intact. I look in the mirror and grin.
Flawless.
My car's already waiting downstairs — a custom black Veyron that purrs like sin and costs more than most people will make in three lifetimes. The driver opens the door the second he sees me, like a trained dog.
"Morning, Mr. Creed."
I slide in without a word. There's only one thing worse than small talk, and that's morning small talk.
By the time we reach Creed Industries Tower, the sun's cutting through the clouds like a spotlight, exactly how I like it. The building is glass and steel perfection, my empire carved into the skyline. My name, in silver letters, crowns the entrance like scripture.
As I step out, security lines up. Phones go down. Heads bow. The King has arrived.
My mood is almost lighted—Almost.
And then I see him.
Damien.
My twin brother. Same face, different soul. He's waiting by the elevator, tie crooked, holding a tablet and a coffee cup like some overworked intern.
"Morning, spare part," I say with a grin as I approached him.
His jaw tightens, just slightly, before he exhales. "Good morning to you too, golden child. You're late for the board meeting."
"I'm fashionably late," I correct. "There's a difference. One makes people stare. The other makes them talk."
Damien rolls his eyes and steps into the elevator beside me. He always has that look — tired, responsible, boring. The kind of man who reads manuals for fun.
"You know," I say, straightening my cufflinks, "you could at least try to look successful. You've got my face, after all. Use it."
"I'd rather earn respect than buy it," he mutters.
I smirk. "That's adorable. Let me know how that works out for you."
The elevator dings open to the boardroom level. All glass walls, sharp suits, and sharper smiles. Everyone's already seated when I walk in, and as usual, the room goes dead quiet.
"Morning, gentlemen," I say, tossing my phone onto the table. "And ladies, if there are any worth noticing today."
A few forced laughs. The usual discomfort. I live for it.
Harold, my CFO, clears his throat nervously. "Mr. Creed, we were just discussing the—"
"I wasn't asking," I interrupt, dropping into the head chair. "If it's important, I'll already know about it. If I don't, it's not."
Damien slides into a seat at the far end, eyes down. Always playing peacekeeper. Pathetic.
One of the board members, a gray-haired man whose name I never remember, clears his throat. "Sir, the lightning-based clean energy reactor is ready for testing tomorrow. We'll need your approval to proceed."
I drum my fingers on the table. "Ah, yes. The big science toy. Finally."
"Yes, sir," Harold says. "It could revolutionize renewable energy—"
"Spare me the brochure," I cut him off. "Just make sure it doesn't blow up the building. I'd hate to have my face on a cautionary tale."
A few nervous chuckles ripple through the room.
"Don't worry," I add, leaning back in my chair with a smirk. "If I forget to show up tomorrow, may lightning strike me dead."
They all laugh, forced and awkward. Damien doesn't. He just glares at me.
I grin wider. "Relax, brother. What's the worst that could happen?"