CH- 6

Andre's POV

The crack of my fist hitting the wall echoed through the quiet expanse of my office, sharp and jarring—a sound so loud it seemed to rattle the very foundations of the building. For a moment, pain exploded up my arm like fire racing through every nerve ending, hot and unrelenting. Damn it.

That wall had been standing for over fifty years—it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. My knuckles throbbed in protest, skin split and raw, but I barely registered the physical discomfort compared to the storm raging inside me.

I turned around sharply, glaring at my secretary who stood frozen by the door, wide-eyed and trembling. Fear radiated off him like heat from an open flame, his clipboard clutched tightly against his chest as if it could shield him from whatever wrath I might unleash next.

"Don't just stand there," I barked, my voice slicing through the silence like a blade, each word dripping with barely contained fury. "Get me something for my hands!"

He flinched visibly, hesitating for half a second too long before stammering out a response.

''Y-yes, sir! Right away!" His feet scrambled against the polished floor as he turned to leave, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to escape the tension thick enough to choke on.

But then he stopped abruptly, glancing back at me with a mix of fear and... pity? No, not pity. Something else. Something that made my blood boil even hotter. "Sir," he said cautiously, his voice wavering, "is everything... okay?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, I considered letting him have it. Telling him exactly how far from "okay" things really were. But instead, I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth might crack under the pressure.

"Does it look like everything's okay?" I snapped, gesturing wildly to my bleeding hand, my disheveled desk, the shattered remnants of a coffee mug lying forgotten on the floor. "Just get me what I asked for and stop wasting my time!"

His face paled further, if that was even possible, and he nodded quickly before disappearing out the door, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my temper tantrum—and the chaos swirling in my head.

I exhaled sharply, running my uninjured hand down my face as I tried to steady myself. The anger still simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over again at any moment. It wasn’t just today’s frustrations gnawing at me—it was everything.

Years of pent-up resentment, regret, failures stacked one on top of another until they formed this unbearable weight pressing down on my chest.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again, and the secretary reappeared, holding a first aid kit like it was a bomb about to go off. He approached slowly, placing it on the edge of my desk without making direct eye contact. "Here you go, sir," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

He scrambled out of sight without another word, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Idiot.

Where do these young, incompetent people keep coming from? They have no backbone, no resilience. If they can’t handle a little pressure, how are they supposed to survive in this cutthroat world?

I slumped back into my massive chair, spinning slowly as frustration coursed through me.

Nathan Delanza… that arrogant, cocky brat. I underestimated him—that much was clear now. Beneath all his smugness and bravado, he actually has a brain. How could I not see it before? The boy isn’t just some spoiled billionaire playing at being a tech mogul; he’s calculated, strategic, ruthless even. Just like me.

My fingers pulsed painfully, serving as a cruel reminder of my failure. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus on what went wrong instead of the throbbing ache in my hand. Of course, it was that damn personal assistant—Marco. Who does he think he is, insisting we meet physically before proceeding?

And now, because of his blunder, our plans were exposed. Someone must have taken pictures. Someone must have leaked them. Now everything is ruined.

The launch will go ahead in two weeks, just as planned. Two weeks! I slammed my uninjured hand against the armrest of my chair, eliciting another dull thud that did nothing to ease my anger. This couldn’t be happening.

Not after everything I’ve worked for. Not after decades of pouring my blood, sweat, and soul into building something from nothing.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my protruding belly rise and fall with the effort. It was infuriating, really—the toll stress had taken on my body over the years. But I didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Slowly, I pushed myself out of my chair and stood, surveying the dimly lit room.

My office was vast, almost cavernous, with shadows stretching across the walls like specters haunting my past. It suited me perfectly. Darkness hid flaws, masked weakness. Light only revealed things you’d rather forget.

My eyes landed on the framed photograph sitting on the edge of my desk—a picture of my beautiful daughter, smiling brightly, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked so happy, so carefree. A pang of guilt twisted in my chest, though I quickly shoved it aside.

There was no wife in the picture anymore, hadn’t been for years. Too many sacrifices made along the way. Every success came at a cost, and mine had left its mark on everyone close to me.

I tore my gaze away from the photo, unable to bear looking at it any longer. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to take it down either.

Cowardice, perhaps. Or maybe it served as a reminder of why I fought so hard—to give her the life she deserved, even if it meant losing pieces of myself in the process.

Perhaps there was still hope. Maybe I didn’t need to go to war—not yet, anyway.

There might be another way, a different approach. Something subtler, less confrontational.

If it worked, then there would be no need for bloodshed or destruction. After all, business wasn’t about brute force; it was about strategy, finesse. And I prided myself on having both.

But one thing was certain: I was going to take back my company.

Whatever the cost.