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Morning crept into Alexander's home like a polite but insistent guest, slipping through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated his penthouse living room. The soft gold of the sunrise bathed the marble floors, making them gleam faintly. His home was an immaculate blend of modern elegance and understated power — a reflection of the man himself.
Alexander stood in the kitchen, still in the loose grey sweatpants and black T-shirt he'd slept in. His hair was slightly mussed, and there was the faintest shadow of stubble along his jawline — the kind of imperfection that somehow made him look even sharper. He wasn't a morning person, not in the way people with noisy alarms and daily affirmations were. But he had a ritual.
The espresso machine hissed quietly as he leaned on the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand. There were messages from his assistant about a deal closing later in the week, reminders from his accountant, and, buried somewhere down the notifications, a news article mentioning his name. He didn't open it. He rarely did. Public opinion was a currency he didn't care to spend.
He poured the espresso into a sleek white cup, added nothing to it, and took a slow sip. The bitterness rolled over his tongue like a familiar truth. Across the room, the TV murmured with muted headlines. His gaze slid toward the far corner, where a single black-and-white photograph rested on a console table — his late father shaking hands with a foreign dignitary. A silent reminder of the name Alexander carried and the expectations that came with it.
By the time the clock touched 7:30 a.m., he'd showered, dressed, and slipped into a dark navy suit that fit him like it had been born on his shoulders. His tie was a precise shade of silver, knotted neatly. Everything about him said control, from the way his cufflinks caught the light to the subtle cologne that carried a warm, musky undertone.
The ride to his office was quiet. The driver, long accustomed to Alexander's dislike for idle chatter, simply navigated the city streets with smooth efficiency. Through the tinted glass, Alexander watched the world go by — street vendors arranging their stalls, commuters clutching paper cups, an elderly man sweeping the front of his shop. He didn't look at them with disdain. He simply looked, absorbing without engaging.
---
When he stepped into his office, the scent of polished wood and faint citrus greeted him. The room was an expanse of dark oak, steel accents, and carefully chosen art. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound books and the occasional rare artifact. His desk was a wide slab of black glass, utterly clean except for a laptop, a small tray with pens, and a crystal decanter of red wine.
Seated in one of the armchairs by the window was Dr. Clinton — one of the very few people in the city, perhaps the only one, who could walk into Alexander's office unannounced and be welcomed without a frown. Clinton was dressed casually in a charcoal blazer over a white shirt, his expression carrying that easy warmth of a man who had spent years studying people and learning how to get past their walls.
"You're early," Alexander said as he crossed to his desk.
"I'm punctual," Clinton corrected with a small grin. "And besides, I knew you wouldn't be with anyone. It's not like I'd be interrupting."
Alexander's brow twitched, almost in amusement, but he let it pass. "Coffee?"
"Already had two cups. I'd rather drink yours," Clinton replied, his eyes drifting toward the decanter.
Alexander arched a brow. "It's not even nine."
Clinton smirked. "And yet, you're already thinking about it."
They shared the kind of laugh only old friends could have — low, brief, and free of pretense. Clinton leaned back, watching Alexander pour a glass of red wine with the same precision he brought to signing multi-million-dollar contracts.
"So," Clinton began, the casual tone failing to mask his curiosity, "about the girl."
Alexander's hand paused slightly over the glass, but he didn't look up. "What about her?"
Clinton tilted his head, studying him. "Don't tell me you actually meant what you told her. That whole… 'I'll wipe her every night for sixty days' thing." His tone was a mix of disbelief and humor, as though he still couldn't tell if Alexander had been serious or just pushing buttons. "It's not going to bring back your money."
Alexander set the glass down, lifted it, and took a slow sip. His gaze was calm, almost distant. "Money," he said finally, "is not my problem. You know that."
"Then what is it?" Clinton asked, more pointed now.
"I'm more than that," Alexander replied, voice low but steady.
There was something in his tone — not arrogance exactly, but a depth Clinton recognized as dangerous. The kind of conviction that meant Alexander's actions wouldn't be dictated by the usual rules of business or revenge.
"Then what do you want?" Clinton pressed.
Alexander's eyes finally met his. "Just let it be. I'll take care of it."
Clinton didn't push further. He'd known Alexander long enough to understand that when he said he'd take care of something, it was both a promise and a warning.
---
The conversation shifted back to business — negotiations with a stubborn client, the progress of a development project — until Clinton's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his easy expression shifted into mild surprise.
"It's Mrs. Collins," he said, standing and moving a few steps away before answering.
Alexander kept sipping his wine, only half-listening, until he caught fragments of Clinton's replies.
"Yes… yes, he's fine… Oh, really? That soon?"
When Clinton ended the call, he looked at Alexander with a mixture of amusement and sympathy.
"Your mom's coming," he said simply.
Alexander set his glass down. "When?"
"Three days from now."
For the first time that morning, Alexander's composure faltered — just slightly.
"She's excited," Clinton continued. "She says she can't wait to finally meet your girlfriend."
Alexander's jaw tightened. Clinton raised a brow.
"You lied to her?"
"I didn't want her worrying," Alexander said flatly. "She loves children. She's been hoping I'd settle down for years."
Clinton gave a short laugh. "Bro, you're cooked. Where are you going to get a girlfriend in three days? You don't even like women."
Alexander leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Leave it to me."
"I trust you," Clinton said, though his grin suggested he was deeply entertained by the prospect.
Outside, the city carried on — unaware that somewhere in a corner office high above its streets, a man who claimed not to care about love had just been given a deadline that might unravel his carefully constructed world.
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