His name was Nathaniel

63

The engine of Nathaniel's car purred softly as he made his way toward the Donovan Mansion, its imposing silhouette looming in the distance. The estate had always felt more like a fortress than a home, a symbol of everything his family stood for: power, control, and cold detachment. As the gates swung open to let him in, Nathaniel's grip on the steering wheel tightened. His father had requested this meeting to "discuss business matters," but Nathaniel had a sinking feeling it would be more than just numbers and reports.

He parked in front of the grand entrance and stepped out, feeling the weight of the mansion pressing down on him. The gravel crunched under his shoes as he walked toward the door, his thoughts swirling. He hadn't been here in weeks, and while he had hoped his time away would help him gain clarity, it had only left him more uncertain. His father had always been a looming presence in his life, and deep down, Nathaniel knew that a part of him was scared of becoming the man standing behind that door.

As he approached the entrance, the door swung open, and there, waiting for him as always, was Greg, the family butler. Nathaniel's tense expression softened slightly as he saw Greg standing tall, looking as healthy and sharp as ever.

"Greg," Nathaniel greeted warmly, extending his hand.

Greg smiled, clasping Nathaniel's hand in a firm shake. "Mr. Nathaniel. It's good to see you again. You're looking well."

"You too," Nathaniel replied, grateful for the familiar face. "How's everything been?"

"Business as usual," Greg said with a knowing smile. "Your father is waiting for you in the study."

Nathaniel nodded, the small glimmer of comfort he had felt moments ago dissipating. His father was never one to show emotion or interest in Nathaniel's personal life, and today would be no different. But there was something about seeing Greg in good shape that made Nathaniel feel a little lighter—at least one part of this house hadn't changed for the worse.

The mansion's halls were as cold and intimidating as ever. The walls were lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors, each one a reminder of the legacy Nathaniel was expected to uphold. His footsteps echoed off the marble floors as he made his way to the study, his chest tightening with each step. He didn't recognize it for what it was—anxiety. All he knew was that he didn't feel right.

When Nathaniel entered the study, Edward Donovan sat behind the large mahogany desk, flipping through a stack of papers. His father barely looked up as Nathaniel walked in, his usual cold indifference firmly in place.

"Father," Nathaniel greeted, standing near the doorway.

Edward glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable. "Nathaniel," he said curtly, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit."

Nathaniel complied, lowering himself into the leather chair opposite his father, the tension between them palpable. Edward wasted no time, jumping straight into business.

"I've been reviewing the recent reports," Edward said, his tone flat and businesslike. "Your work has positively impacted the company. Revenue is up, and some of the changes you've implemented have proven effective."

Nathaniel blinked in surprise. Praise—if you could even call it that—was rare from his father. But there was no warmth behind the words, no sense of pride in his voice. It was all facts, numbers, and results.

"I've been preparing for my long-awaited retirement," Edward continued, as though the words held no personal significance. "But before I hand over the reins, I need to know if you're ready to take over."

Nathaniel stiffened. This was the question he had been dreading, the one that had loomed over him for months. His father's retirement was inevitable, and with it came the crushing weight of the family business—the Donovan legacy. But was he ready? Was he ever going to be ready?

"I..." Nathaniel hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm not sure."

Edward's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing at Nathaniel's response. "Not sure?"

Nathaniel shifted in his seat, feeling the pressure mount. "It's a huge responsibility. I've been thinking about it, but—"

"But what?" Edward interrupted, his voice cold and cutting. "This isn't something you can afford to be unsure about, Nathaniel. This is your legacy. You're the only Donovan heir. If you don't step up, who will?"

Nathaniel's chest tightened further, his thoughts a jumble of uncertainty and fear. His father's words hit hard, but they weren't new. This was the burden he had always carried—the expectation that he would one day take over the business and carry on the Donovan name. But the truth was, the idea of becoming like his father—cold, ruthless, and detached—terrified him.

Edward leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "You should have been ready by now," he said, his voice lowering with barely concealed frustration. "This hesitation, this indecisiveness... It reminds me of your grandfather."

Nathaniel flinched at the mention of his grandfather. He knew how his father felt about him—Edward had never had a kind word to say about his own father, blaming him for what he saw as weakness.

"Your grandfather was very harsh raising me," Edward continued, his voice laced with contempt. "He realized as well and has turned soft, and now I see that softness in you."

Nathaniel's stomach churned, a mix of anger and shame bubbling beneath the surface. His grandfather had been the only one in the family who had ever shown him kindness, but to his father, that kindness was a sign of weakness. And now, Edward was blaming his grandfather's mistakes for Nathaniel's uncertainty.

"I'm not my grandfather," Nathaniel said quietly, his voice strained.

"Prove it," Edward replied coldly, his eyes boring into Nathaniel's.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Nathaniel's mind raced, but no words came. He wasn't ready. He knew that. But admitting it out loud only deepened the disappointment in his father's eyes.

After a long, tense moment, Edward finally spoke again, his tone clipped. "Think it over, Nathaniel. But don't take too long. Time isn't on your side."

Nathaniel stood, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. His father's words echoed in his mind, leaving him with an unsettling feeling of doubt and fear. As he walked toward the door, he could feel his father's gaze burning into his back, a silent reminder of the expectations he had yet to meet.

Greg was waiting for him by the front entrance, his kind face a stark contrast to the coldness Nathaniel had just experienced.

"Everything alright, sir?" Greg asked, his voice gentle.

Nathaniel forced a small smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll manage."

Greg gave him a knowing look, but said nothing. Sometimes silence spoke louder than words.

As Nathaniel drove away from the mansion, his thoughts were heavy with the weight of his father's words. The pressure to take over the family business was more suffocating than ever, and his father's disappointment only made it worse. He felt trapped—trapped between the expectations of a legacy he wasn't sure he wanted and the fear of becoming the very man he despised.

His health was still fragile, and the realization that he was the only Donovan heir made the pressure unbearable. Time, as his father had cruelly reminded him, wasn't on his side.