Dominated (Obsessed II)

01.

Richard Dawson (Junior)
Money Matters
•••

The clock on my desk read 6:45 PM. The light from my floor-to-ceiling windows had dimmed as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across my office.

Dawson Enterprises, a name that commanded respect and fear in equal measure—never truly slept. Neither did I.

My desk was littered with paperwork that spanned the empire I'd built from the ground up. Each document, each number, was proof of my success, a reminder that I hadn't just inherited a legacy—I'd fortified it.

In front of me were three contracts, each one demanding my immediate attention. The first was a merger proposal from a tech startup that had been nipping at our heels for years. They finally realized it was smarter to join forces than to compete.

I skimmed through the pages, the legal jargon almost boring in its predictability. I'd let the lawyers squabble over the details, but I already knew how this would end, Dawson Enterprises would consume them whole. That was how it had to be. My father used to say that there's no room for second place in business, only first or forgotten.

Next was the quarterly report for Dawson Real Estates, highlighting our latest acquisition, a prime piece of land in the heart of Manhattan. The profit margins made me smile. It was a steal, really.

The previous owners had been too desperate, too blind to the goldmine they were sitting on. Their loss was my gain, and it would bolster our portfolio in ways the competition could only dream of.

The third stack of papers was the most tedious: budget allocations for our luxury hotels. I didn't need to go through it in detail; I had a team for that. Still, I liked to keep an eye on the big numbers. It kept everyone on their toes, knowing that I was never far from the action.

You had to be, when the world assumed your wealth was handed to you on a silver platter. They didn't see the battles, the backroom deals, the late nights spent proving to the old man that I was more than just his heir—I was his equal, maybe even his better.

As I was about to sign off on the last sheet, my phone buzzed. Isabelle's name flashed on the screen, followed by her message: Will you be home for dinner?

Isabelle. My wife, the perfect accessory to the life I'd crafted. She was beautiful, poised, and smart enough not to question my late nights. Yet, sometimes, I caught something in her eyes—doubt, maybe even resentment. But that wasn't my concern.

I stared at the message, contemplating my reply. The truth was, I had no intention of making it for dinner. Not because I didn't want to see her, but because I had more pressing matters to attend to. Building an empire came first; everything else was secondary. I didn't have the luxury of clocking out or of slowing down, not when I had everything to prove.

Working late. Don't wait up, I typed back and hit send without another thought. She'd understand, or at least, she'd pretend to.

I tossed the phone onto the desk and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The day wasn't unfamiliar, but there was something else gnawing at me. Not guilt—no, I didn't do guilt—but an awareness that I was walking a tightrope

One misstep and everything could crumble. And I wasn't about to let that happen—not after all I'd sacrificed, not after all I'd done to prove I was more than just the son of Richard Dawson Snr.

I picked up the glass of scotch sitting on the corner of my desk, the amber liquid glinting in the low light, and took a long, slow sip. The burn was comforting, reminding me that I was still in control, still the master of my own universe. The world thought they knew me—a spoiled, entitled brat who'd been given the keys to the kingdom. They didn't know the half of it.