The morning sunlight filtered through the penthouse windows, but it didn't warm me. I stood still, jaw tight, collar stiff against my neck as my tailor finished pinning the final stitch on the cuffs of my charcoal suit. Another day, another uniform for war.
"Perfect as always, Mr. Macray," the tailor said, folding his tools with mechanical precision.
I nodded once. No smile. No warmth. I didn't have time for pleasantries. No time for such, not with what was waiting for me out there. As the tailor left, I walked across the silent expanse of my penthouse. The view of New York was uninterrupted, a glass wall of ambition and consequence. Down below, the city buzzed. Up here, legacy echoed louder than any siren.
My phone buzzed.
Rick Macray:
Boardroom. 10 sharp.
Rick was my uncle and the manipulative string-puller behind the Macray family's legal empire. I was a lawyer, not by choice, but I understood the importance of power, and Rick knew how to weaponize mine. I grabbed my watch, clicked it, into place. The day was about to begin. Another day, another fight... and the ghosts never miss the roll call.
Sometimes I still hear Pablo Macray's voice in my head. My grandfather, the man who clawed this dynasty out of the ashes of post-war New York and built it into a kingdom. "Legacy isn't just money," he'd said once, when I was fourteen and too cocky to listen. "If the pressure bends you, then it'll break everyone around you."
I hadn't understood then. Now I did. Every damn day. Darion Macray, my father, carried that weight like armor. Cold. Sharp. Imposing. Where Pablo was fire and grit, Darion was steel and silence. He didn't rule with emotion—he ruled with expectation. And he expected me to carry his empire like it was my birthright. I did, even though it never stopped feeling like a burden.
By 9:30 am, I was already walking into the Macray estate. Not because I lived there—I didn't. I'd earned my independence with blood, grit, and zero scandal. But family meetings weren't optional. Not in a house where tradition was religion. My steps echoed through the marble floor like a countdown. Nothing in this house is accidental—every silence, every stare, weighted like a verdict. Every chandelier, every imported vase, every polished surface existed to remind you where you were: in the orbit of the Macray name.
My mother, Elaine Macray, waited in the sunroom. Manicured fingers held a green juice, something herbal and smug, not because she liked it but because Vogue said it was in. She looked pristine as always—silk blouse, diamonds like ice on her fingers, her dark hair twisted into a sculpted knot that hadn't changed since 1995. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a socialite magazine, and that's exactly where she intended to stay.
"You're later than usual," she said without looking up from her tablet.
"It's 9:33."
"Exactly."
Elaine was the gatekeeper of our image. Always pristine. Always sharp. Always planning the next photoshoot, charity gala, or headline-worthy dinner.
"Morning, Mother."
She finally glanced up, cool brown eyes assessing me the way a jeweler would examine a flawed diamond. "You know how your father feels about excuses," she said.
"Your father's upstairs on a call. Your sister's in a mood. And your brother is, well, still Luke." I gave a short laugh. "That narrows it down. "Carrie wants to defer Yale, claims she needs 'a year to discover herself. Elaine's tone could've frozen fire. "Apparently, Ibiza has educational value now." "She's eighteen," I said. "Let her live.
" She'll live when she's married to a Fortune 500 heir and sitting on a board."
"Not everyone wants a merger, Mother." She looked up, one eyebrow arched. "That's where you're wrong." Caroline Macray burst into the room moments later, in ripped jeans and designer sunglasses. "I heard that," she said, flopping onto the velvet couch. "And for the record, Ibiza is very educational." You skipped an interview with Yale," Elaine said, teeth tight behind her smile. "I skipped a Zoom call. Sue me." Carrie was chaos with a brain. The youngest Macray and already better at verbal judo than most CEOs I'd met.
She idolized me—though she'd never admit it—and challenged everyone else. "She'll be fine," I said. "She's smarter than all of us. "Exactly," Carrie said, smirking. "Which is why I'm not interested in Yale's soul-crushing agenda right now." Before Elaine could retort, Luke Macray strolled in like he owned the world—or at least his personal reality show.
Wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned to his chest and aviators indoors, he looked like a magazine spread gone rogue. "Family reunion?" he asked, pouring himself a mimosa. "You were supposed to be in Paris," I said. "I was. Then I got bored."
Father entered the room, towering. Impeccably dressed. Cold as the floor beneath our feet. Darion Macray didn't do hugs. He met expectations.
"Thomas," he said, not using my full name. Never called me son when there's a merger at stake. Then he turned to Luke,
"You're late."
"To what?" Luke replied.
"To everything."
Darion glared at him and then turned to me. "You're still handling the Horizon merger?"
"Yes."
"Don't let Rick screw it up with his lawsuits."
"Noted."
Luke raised his glass. "Cheers to functional families." Darion ignored him. Typical.
Our grandmother Sylvia sat by the fireplace, looking like a queen who hadn't abdicated. Her silver hair was a perfect wave, her pearls were real, and her eyes—steel-blue Macray eyes—missed nothing.
"You all bicker like debutantes," she said, voice sharp as glass. "If Pablo were alive, he'd send you to the mines." "He liked mines," I murmured. She smiled faintly. "He liked earning something. This family's gotten soft. "I'm running a billion-dollar company," I said. "And yet, your cousin Nate is probably gambling away your PR budget as we speak." Speak of the devil. Nathaniel "Nate" Macray waltzed in like he hadn't been missing for a week.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, grinning. "Had to win back a yacht."
"You lost a yacht?" I asked.
"Technically, it wasn't mine."
"Even better. Nate was charming, reckless, and completely unqualified for anything meaningful. But he had the Macray smile, and that kept him in the family. For now. "Sit down before grandma drafts a will and forget you exist," Carrie said. "Too late," Grandma muttered.
Then came the Scotts. Victoria Scott—my mum's sister—swept into the room like a hurricane wearing Chanel. "Darling Thomas," she said, kissing the air. "You're still criminally handsome and tragically serious." "And you're still delightfully drunk on Tuesday mornings I said." She winked. "Never before ten. It's nine-fifty-eight." Her husband Gregory trailed behind her, more interested in his golf app than the family meeting.
"Thomas," he said without looking up. "Good quarter?"
"Solid."
"Glad someone's keeping the lights on." The room was full. The pressure doubled. This was what it meant to be a Macray. Old money. New battles. And always, always someone watching. My phone buzzed again.
Rick Macray: Where the hell are you? I need you. NOW!
I slipped my jacket on. "Duty calls," I said. Darion gave a single nod. "Don't disappoint me." Elaine sipped her juice like it was poison. Carrie waved sarcastically. Luke had already wandered off. Nate was trying to steal someone's watch. Sylvia called out one last word:
"Pablo believed in you. Don't make me regret it." I paused. Then left.
At Macray Holdings, I was CEO. Youngest to ever do it in the family. I ran real estate, tech, and a dozen other beasts my father didn't want to touch.
At Macray Law, Rick ruled. His office was a temple of marble, leather, and manipulation. Rick Macray—Richard if you wanted to piss him off—was many things. A legal genius. A ruthless tactician. A serial womanizer with the attention span of a goldfish. But more than anything, he was the man behind the curtain of every Macray play. If Darion was the face of the empire, Rick was the shadow that made sure the lights stayed on for his brother. And me? I was his investment portfolio in human form.
He ran Macray & Gold, one of the most prestigious law firms on the East Coast. Corporations, politicians, billionaires—they all came to Rick when they needed problems buried and bodies metaphorically burned. His word carried more weight than most judges. Some whispered he had three Supreme Court justices on speed dial. Rick didn't deny it. He never denied anything. Women? Don't get me started. Rick couldn't stay with one if you threatened him with public celibacy. There was always a new face on his arm, some high-fashion model with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and ambitions just as ruthless.
Monday, it might be a Victoria's Secret angel. By Friday, she'd be replaced by a Bond girl lookalike. He rotated them like suits—expensive, sleek, and always disposable. Marriage? Rick laughed at the idea. Once, after his third divorce, he toasted at a family gathering: "Love is just leverage wrapped in lingerie."
What a bastard!
Still, the bastard got results. And for all his sins, Rick had taken a real interest in me. Not the familial kind. More like a blacksmith perfecting a weapon, whether he loved me or not, wasn't my problem. I doubt Rick loved anyone. But he believed in my utility. I was the Macray who made him look good. Who never cracked? And in his world, that was the closest thing to love you could hope for.
"You're late," he said.
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
He tossed a folder at me. "Delaney Pharma is suing us for IP mismanagement. If this hits the press, we lose Evergreen. You know what that means?" "Our expansion dies in the water."
Rick leaned closer. "You're not just my nephew, Thomas. You're my play. My golden chip. Don't forget it." "I don't forget anything. Good! Because I don't like replacing assets." There it was. The real Rick. Master puppeteer. Every compliment is a threat in disguise. I left the office two hours later, my head pounding. That night, I did what I always did after a day like this.
I called Mira. She wasn't my girlfriend. She wasn't even a constant. She was my relief mechanism. We had an understanding, open relationship, zero attachment. She liked money and the soft life. I liked silence and control. We both got what we wanted. Mira wasn't wife material. She knew it. I knew it. She hunted big fish, but she was never planning to settle, not a problem. The only rule, no sleepovers. And rules… were what kept me sane.