London, 1987. Fog curled low over the Thames, swallowing the outlines of Westminster in pale-grey silence. The streets were damp, littered with yesterday's newspapers, the headlines screaming of an energy crisis that seemed to never end. Behind black iron gates, at the edge of Belgravia, stood a house that was less a home and more a statement.
The Holloway Estate.
Marble pillars, manicured hedges, windows trimmed in gold — it was a fortress of old money, the kind that did not ask for respect but commanded it. The Holloway family had been rich for as long as London could remember. Not merely wealthy — generationally untouchable.
Their history was whispered in parliament corridors and inked into stock ledgers. Mark's great-grandfather had built the empire at the turn of the century, founding Holloway Global Energy, a company that bled coal, oil, and fire into the arteries of the industrial world. When the twentieth century demanded power, the Holloways sold it by the ton. When the wars came, they sold it by the barrel. And when peace returned, they sold it by the dream — the dream of endless progress, endless light.
The company passed, like inheritance written in stone, from father to son. From the iron-willed founder, to the sharp-eyed grandfather, to Arthur Holloway.
Arthur had been different. More charm than steel. Where his predecessors had been cold industrialists, Arthur walked into boardrooms with a smile that disarmed and a cigarette that smoked like punctuation between his words. He had ambition, yes — but also taste. He made Holloway Global Energy not just profitable but elegant. A name that meant trust in public and dominance in private.
But Arthur's pleasures were his undoing. He smoked not to pass time but to consume it. Tobacco. Cigars. Pipes. Even the occasional rolled leaf of weed slipped into his evenings. The smoke became part of him — his voice rough, his fingers stained, his lungs carrying the slow shadow of his habits.
It was that vice that led to Holloway Cigars Ltd. Not content with merely buying indulgence, Arthur manufactured it. His factories turned mahogany leaves into luxury, each cigar wrapped not in paper but in prestige. The Holloway crest stamped in gold foil, smoked in private clubs from London to Dubai.
Yet by 1987, Arthur was fading. Lung cancer gnawed at him from within, carving his body down to a husk of what it once had been. In the Holloway estate's grand drawing room, between velvet drapes and oil portraits of dead ancestors, Arthur sat in a high-backed chair, coughing into a handkerchief that always came away spotted red.
And by his side — always — was Echo.
She had not been born into privilege. She had been a nurse, once, tending to Arthur's father during the final months of his life. Compassionate, steady-handed, the kind of woman who saw blood and did not flinch. She had married Arthur not for his empire but in spite of it, though she had never fully belonged to its world of smoke-filled corridors and whispered deals. Where Arthur was indulgence, Echo was restraint. Where Arthur burned, Echo healed.
Together they had only one child.
Mark Holloway.
From the moment he could walk through the halls of the estate, it was clear he was different. The Holloway wealth ran in his veins, but so too did something darker — a hunger that went beyond comfort or inheritance. While other children sought play, Mark sought dominance. He wanted to win not just games but the room. Not just applause but submission.
Arthur saw it. And he feared it.
The Holloway empire had always been built on ambition, but Mark's ambition was something else entirely. It was sharp-edged. Sinister. Less about building than about conquering. Less about legacy than about control. Mark did not want to run Holloway Global Energy. He wanted to bend the world to his will, remake it in his own reflection.
Arthur, dying and weary, still clung to the hope that his son might be tamed. He left Holloway Cigars Ltd. for him, believing perhaps the smaller empire might keep him occupied, might feed his hunger without poisoning the larger well.
But Mark had no taste for smoke. His eyes were set on fire — on the raw furnaces of Holloway Global Energy, the true throne of the family name.
He watched his father cough himself closer to the grave. He watched his mother tend to a man who would not live to see another decade. He watched, and somewhere behind those calm, calculating eyes, a thought repeated itself like a prayer:
When they are gone, the world will be mine.
And though the chandelier still glowed above Arthur's head, and though Echo still stood at the window whispering her private prayers, Mark Holloway already felt it.
The century belonged to him.
London, 1990.
The corridors of St. James' Hospital smelled of antiseptic and old breath. Machines beeped with the slow rhythm of borrowed time. Nurses moved like shadows in white shoes, carrying trays of instruments that gleamed under fluorescent lights.
Behind one door, in a private room guarded more by reputation than by doctors, Arthur Holloway lay dying.
His skin was paper-thin, stretched over bones that no longer carried weight. The once-booming voice that had bent boardrooms to silence was now a rasp, broken by coughing fits that ended with blood on his lips. Even in weakness, though, he clung stubbornly to life. He had been clinging for years — to his wife Echo, to his empire, to the faint hope that his son might inherit something more than money.
But his son was not here for hope.
Mark Holloway stood at the foot of the bed, hands in the pockets of his tailored coat, watching his father breathe. He was twenty-three — too young, they whispered, to command a dynasty. Too restless to wait for nature to take its course.
Arthur's hand twitched against the sheets, reaching for the bell to summon a nurse. His voice cracked as he tried to speak.
"Mark…"
But Mark was already moving.
He slid the pillow from beneath the chair by the bed. The room was silent but for the steady beep of the monitor. He pressed the pillow down over his father's face.
Arthur struggled, frail arms flailing against a strength decades younger. The monitor screamed its alarm, jagged lines racing across the screen. Mark's jaw clenched, his eyes cold.
It did not take long.
When it was over, Mark smoothed the sheets, placed the pillow back, and straightened his cuffs. He stood for a moment, staring at the lifeless body, and whispered — not to Arthur, but to himself:
"The world doesn't wait. Neither will I."
—————————————————————————————————————————————
The Heir-Becoming Holloway
The news broke quietly. The Holloway patriarch, dead at sixty-two, lungs finally surrendered. No one asked questions. In London's corridors of power, no one wanted to.
Mark Holloway became CEO of Holloway Global Energy.
And the world… laughed.
In boardrooms, behind closed doors, they called him the boy king. A spoiled heir. A child who had climbed into the throne on an escalator his father built. His handshake was dismissed. His presence tolerated. He was not respected. Not yet.
But Mark was patient in his own way. He swallowed the disdain, sat in meetings where older men ignored him, and listened. Always listening. At night, in the Holloway estate, he dug into the past. His father's papers. His grandfather's ledgers. Boxes of notes yellowed with age.
Arthur's handwriting haunted him. Calculations, margins, half-burned cigars left in ashtrays beside notebooks filled with ideas. Contracts that showed how deals were made not with money, but with leverage. Secrets tucked into the margins of history.
For three years, Mark lived in two worlds. By day, the underestimated figurehead. By night, the archivist of his own dynasty, tearing open the skeleton of the Holloway empire and rebuilding it in his mind.
At twenty-six, he emerged. Not the boy king they had mocked. But a man sharpened by knowledge, his father's ghost whispering through every page he had studied.
Still, when he looked in the mirror, it was not Arthur he saw. It was something else. Something colder. The newspapers called him "the boy with the silver crown." Shareholders smiled politely, whispered privately. A twenty-three-year-old CEO was novelty, not authority.
So Mark went back to school. Not for learning — for legitimacy.
At the London School of Economics, he wore arrogance like a tailored coat. While others scribbled notes, he corrected professors mid-sentence, turning lectures into debates. He wasn't the brightest student in every subject, but he was the one they remembered — sharp, restless, always circling back to power.
"Profit is survival," he told a startled lecturer during a case study. "But control… control is destiny."
Some laughed. Some dismissed him. But others — the few who saw what lurked behind his calm expression — fell silent.
At night, after lectures, Mark returned to Belgravia. The estate had grown colder since Arthur's death. Echo wandered its halls like a ghost, clutching silence tighter than her shawl. She rarely spoke to her son anymore; she prayed instead, whispering to a God Mark had long since dismissed.
Mark did not pray. He studied.
The archives became his sanctuary. Cabinets filled with letters stamped in fading ink. Hand-written notes from Arthur's desk. Transcripts of board meetings from the 1960s, the kind of minutes never meant for outsiders. He read them all. He memorized the language of leverage, the art of smiling while gutting a rival across the table.
When his classmates drank in Soho, Mark drank alone in his father's office, one hand turning pages, the other resting on a crystal tumbler filled with the same brandy Arthur once favored.
Three years passed like that. By twenty-six, he had worn away the softness of youth.
In the boardroom, the first test came.
An older director, Harrington by name, sneered across the table at Mark during a quarterly review. "With all respect, Mr. Holloway, you've inherited titles, not wisdom. Perhaps leave the strategy to those of us who've seen markets collapse and rebuild."
The room chuckled. A half-dozen gray-haired men nodding in agreement.
Mark did not answer immediately. He tapped his pen against the leather portfolio in front of him. Tap. Tap. The sound carried across the oak table like a ticking clock.
When the silence had stretched thin, he leaned forward.
"Gentlemen," he said softly. "Markets don't collapse. People do. And people can be… managed."
The chuckling stopped.
For the first time, the directors looked at him not as a boy. But as something they could not yet define.
He had studied Arthur's empire until it bled into him. But where Arthur had built with charm, Mark intended to build with fear. Respect, he understood now, was not given. It was taken. And slowly, inexorably, Mark Holloway began to take.
London, 1993.
The Holloway Global Energy headquarters loomed over the city like a citadel. The glass facade caught the pale morning sun, but inside the air was thick with tension — the kind that clung to old money and whispered dynasties.
Mark Holloway walked through the marble-floored lobby with the stride of a man who had long stopped asking for permission. His coat swayed behind him, polished shoes clicking in steady rhythm. Every step carried the arrogance of someone born into privilege, but beneath it now was something sharper: the weight of purpose.
He went straight to the top floor. Geoffrey Clarke, Arthur's long-serving personal assistant, rose from his desk as soon as he saw him. Geoffrey was in his fifties now, hair greying at the temples, posture still crisp, but the loyalty in his eyes was a fading light. He had served Arthur Holloway for decades, watched the empire grow and falter, and carried a quiet hope that Mark, for all his flaws, might one day rise above his father's sins.
"Mr. Holloway," Geoffrey said, voice formal but softened by familiarity.
Mark didn't return the smile. "Bring me the files."
"Which files, sir?"
"The ones my father rejected." Mark's tone was flat, almost casual. But his eyes — sharp, calculating — left no room for doubt.
For a moment, Geoffrey hesitated. Those files had gathered dust for years, projects Arthur had dismissed with the authority of a man who understood the weight of every risk. Geoffrey had always assumed they were buried for good reason.
But then, he saw something in Mark. A shift. The boy who once strutted through these halls like a prince had grown heavier in presence, his arrogance tempered by three years of study and scars no one else had seen.
Geoffrey nodded. "Yes, sir."
Minutes later, he carried a thick bundle of files into the CEO's office. The leather chairs, the vast oak desk, the panoramic view of London — all of it belonged now to Mark. Geoffrey placed the files down, his hands lingering a second longer than they needed to.
"Stay outside," Mark said, already loosening the tie at his neck. "I don't want to be disturbed."
The door closed. Silence.
Mark pulled the first file open. Rejected proposals. Ideas too costly, too unstable, too dangerous. He skimmed through numbers, projections, risk assessments scrawled in Arthur's hand. One by one, he dismissed them, until one page caught his eye.
Chronium.
The word itself seemed alive, burning into him from the paper. Notes were sparse, almost deliberately vague. A mineral, rare. High-energy potential. Unstable in concentrated form. Capable of producing enough energy to supply not just a factory, not just a city, but an entire nation.
Mark's eyes narrowed. His father had underlined one phrase in bold strokes of ink:
"Rejected. Dangerous. Do not pursue."
Mark leaned back in his chair, the file resting in his lap. His mind ticked, gears turning. Profits beyond imagination, energy that could make Holloway Global Energy not just a company but a dominion. And yet Arthur — the man who smoked his lungs to ash, the man who founded empires on risk — had turned it away.
Why? The question ate at him for three hours. When at last he called Geoffrey back into the office, the older man found him sitting behind the desk, the Chronium file open before him, Mark's expression unreadable.
"Tell me," Mark said. "Why did my father reject this?"
Geoffrey hesitated. "I don't know, sir. You're father rarely explained his decisions. He believed some risks weren't worth words."
"Not good enough," Mark snapped.
"Sir, your father was—" Geoffrey stopped. He met Mark's gaze and saw, for the first time, not impatience but something colder. "Your father was highly knowledgeable. If he rejected it… he must have had reason."
Mark stared at him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he rose.
"Come with me."
The Holloway lobby was a cavern of glass and marble, chandeliers throwing fractured light across the polished floor. At its center stood a bronze statue of the company's founder, Mark's great-grandfather, one hand on a globe, the other pointing forward like a general leading an invisible army.
Mark dragged a chair into the middle of the space. The screech of wood against marble echoed through the vast hall. He sat down, legs crossed, the Chronium file balanced on his knee.
"Close the doors," he told Geoffrey.
"Sir?"
"Close them. And then call everyone. Every director. Every employee in this building. I want them here."
It took nearly an hour. Confusion rippled through the offices. Whispers followed orders down corridors. By the time the last worker had filed in, the lobby was packed wall to wall — hundreds of employees, managers, clerks, assistants. A thousand faces staring up at the young man in the chair.
Mark sat with his eyes closed. Geoffrey leaned close, whispering in his ear.
"They're all here, sir."
Mark opened his eyes. Calm. Dangerous. He rose and dragged a table into the center, climbing onto it, looking down at the sea of Holloway employees.
The room buzzed with whispers. Skepticism. Resentment. Mark raised a hand. Silence fell, reluctant but inevitable.
"Let me reintroduce myself," he began. His voice carried through the marble like steel wrapped in silk. "I am Mark Holloway. A few years ago, you all knew me as the kid who sat on his daddy's throne. And yes… I did. I won't deny it. I won't sugarcoat it."
A ripple of murmurs. Some smirked. Others folded their arms.
"I'm sure," Mark continued, "there are men in this room who wanted the position I now hold. Men who've worked decades, clawed their way up the ladder, only to watch me walk past them on an escalator. I imagine you're pissed. And for that…" He paused, let the silence stretch. Then he smiled. Cold. Arrogant. "Well… sorry my ass."
Gasps. A few nervous laughs.
"Am I really sorry?" Mark tilted his head. "No. Not one bit. I didn't have the qualifications, I didn't have the years. But I have something else. I am goddamn sure I'm better than Arthur. And I'm better than every single one of you."
The lobby erupted in whispers. Mark let them speak, let the tension build. Then, like a blade through cloth, his voice cut across the room.
"Go on. Try me."
And they did. Questions flew from every corner. A barrage of challenges.
"What were our sales last quarter?" "How much of the market do we hold in Asia?" "What was our profit margin in '91?" "How many shares did Arthur sell in '85?" "Where's our largest refinery?" "What's our debt ratio?"
Mark answered each without hesitation. Precise. Sharp. Numbers rolled off his tongue like bullets.
"Our sales last quarter? Four-point-three billion. Thirty-two percent margin." "Market in Asia? Twelve percent and growing. That's more than Imperial Petroleum can say." "Shares in '85? Four hundred and fifty thousand sold. Do you want the names of the buyers as well?" "Largest refinery? Qatar. Debt ratio? Eighteen percent. Safer than half the companies you admire."
The room quieted. Whispers turned to silence. Then Mark pressed further.
"You think I don't know this company? I know how many people work in every department. Finance? Seventy-four. R&D? One hundred and twelve. PR? Thirty-five. London branch? Six hundred. Dubai? Four hundred. Singapore? Two-fifty. Do I need to go on?"
The silence deepened. Faces shifted from skepticism to unease.
Mark raised the Chronium file high above his head.
"I don't know why Arthur rejected this project," he shouted, his voice echoing off marble. "But I will make sure it creates history."
The papers fluttered as his fist tightened around them. His eyes swept the crowd — his employees, his subjects.
"I want to work on this. And I want you with me. But let me be clear."
His voice dropped low, deadly.
"Those who work more will be paid more. You give me hours, I give you mansions. You give me sweat, I give you cars. Anything you name — I'll buy it. Luxury is yours to claim."
A pause. The crowd leaned in.
"But remember this." His smile sharpened into something sinister. "I decide who earns a luxury car… and who earns a luxury deathbed."
The lobby was silent. Not a whisper, not a cough. Just a thousand people staring up at the man who had, in one speech, torn down every doubt and rebuilt himself as something else entirely.
Mark Holloway. No longer the boy who inherited an empire. The man who would rule it.
The city slept, but the Holloway Tower did not.
At two in the morning, the lobby still glowed with artificial light, elevators still hummed, and the faint clatter of typewriter keys echoed in distant corridors. The Chronium Project had consumed the building, and every man and woman inside knew it. Mark Holloway had ordered the research around the clock, building a new empire in sleepless hours.
Mark himself had not left his office in three days. His desk was buried beneath stacks of geological surveys, rejected proposals, and ledgers dense with equations. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, suspenders tight against his shoulders, the expensive leather watch on his wrist ticking away the hours he had chosen to ignore.
At last, exhaustion drove him from his desk. His eyes ached, his throat was dry. He left the office and wandered into the cafeteria, a wide sterile room now empty in the dead of night.
The coffee urns gleamed under the fluorescent light. The boy who usually manned them was long gone. Mark muttered under his breath, irritated. He found the filters, poured the grounds, and clumsily worked the machine himself. Steam hissed, bitter scent rising.
"Never thought I'd see the great Mark Holloway making his own coffee."
The voice was female. Light, lilting, amused. Mark turned.
She stood in the doorway like she had always belonged there. Sabrina DeVere. Her hair tied back in a loose bun, glasses perched on her nose, a pink formal shirt buttoned just enough to remain professional, and a black pencil skirt that traced her form with precision. Her heels clicked softly as she walked in, every movement deliberate.
Mark raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Sabrina. Sabrina DeVere." She extended a hand with easy confidence. "New to the project. Hired on research support."
Mark shook it lightly, studying her. "You keep strange hours, Miss DeVere."
"So do you, Mr. Holloway." Her smile was sharp. "I thought CEOs left work to the tired and the desperate. But here you are, making your own coffee."
Mark almost smirked. "Desperate, yes. Tired… not yet."
She moved closer, eyes flicking briefly to the files he had carried with him. "Chronium," she said softly. "That's what has you restless, isn't it? The mineral your father buried."
Mark's jaw tightened. "You know too much."
"I know enough," she replied. "Enough to see you're not like him. Arthur knew when to stop. You… don't look like the stopping kind."
The air between them shifted. She leaned against the counter, her fingers toying idly with the rim of a coffee cup. "Tell me something, Mark. Do you ever stop at all? Or is it all numbers and power and sleepless nights?"
He poured coffee into two cups, slid one toward her. "Why do you ask?"
Her smile turned playful. "Because I was wondering if a man like you has… time. A wife, perhaps? Children hidden away somewhere?"
Mark shook his head. "No. Neither."
"Single then." She let the word linger, unbuttoning the top of her shirt casually, as if the room had grown too warm. "Interesting."
Mark sipped his coffee. "You flirt with your CEO at two in the morning. Bold strategy."
"Bold is the only way to survive here," Sabrina said, stepping closer. Her hand brushed his shoulder lightly, fingertips trailing the fabric of his white shirt. She leaned close enough that he caught the faint scent of perfume — roses, tempered with smoke.
Her other hand produced a cigar from her pocket. She held it out between two fingers, teasing. "Your father would've accepted. Would you?"
Mark stared at it, then shook his head. "I'm not Arthur."
For a moment, silence. Then he said, almost abruptly, "Let's take things slow."
Her expression softened, curiosity in her eyes. "Slow?"
Mark nodded. "Not everything needs to burn all at once."
Sabrina smiled faintly. "All right then, Mr. Holloway. Slow it is."
They sat at a corner table. The cafeteria was empty, save for the soft hum of refrigerators and the steam rising from their coffee cups. Conversation drifted easily — from business, to their childhoods, to embarrassing missteps at parties, to quiet laughter about professors neither had respected.
For hours they spoke. Time thinned into something weightless. Mark, who had never allowed anyone so close, found himself disarmed by her candor, her wit, the way she leaned forward when he spoke as though his words mattered more than the empire behind them.
When at last he checked his watch, dawn threatened the horizon.
"I should get back," he said reluctantly. "Work waits."
"You forgot it for a while," she teased. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled — genuinely, for the first time in weeks. "You're beautiful. Distractingly so."
Her reply was flirty, effortless. "Careful, Mark. Distraction can be dangerous."
As they rose, he offered, "Do you need a ride home?"
She waved it off. "I can manage."
But when he insisted, she gave only a knowing smile, a gesture that said yes, but make me believe it was your idea.
The car was a Jaguar XJ40, sleek and black, leather seats carrying the scent of wealth. Mark drove through the quiet London streets while Sabrina leaned back, laughing softly as they traded stories. Their words wandered — childhood embarrassments, awkward failures, small victories. Each revelation seemed to peel away the layers of armor Mark wore, until he was not the ruthless CEO but simply a man, laughing in the dark.
At her townhouse, the car idled. Silence settled. Their eyes met in the dim light. For a moment, neither moved. Then Mark reached, took her by the wrist, and kissed her. Firm. Certain.
She kissed him back. The door closed behind them.
Clothes fell away like forgotten burdens. Their laughter softened into whispers, into the breathless silence of discovery. No audience, no empire, no legacy — only two people learning each other's shapes in the dark. The world outside ceased to matter.
When it was over, they lay side by side, the city quiet beyond the window. Naked, unguarded, their bodies curved toward each other in sleep. For the first time in years, Mark Holloway closed his eyes without thinking of power, or profit, or the Chronium files stacked high on his desk.
For the first time, he slept.
The phone rang like an alarm splitting the quiet.
Mark stirred awake, the weight of last night still clinging to him. Sabrina lay beside him, her hair spilling across the pillow, her breathing slow and even. For the briefest moment, he considered ignoring the sound, letting the world wait.
But the ringing didn't stop.
He reached across the bedside table, lifted the receiver. His voice was still gravel from sleep.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Holloway?" A woman's voice, steady but urgent. "This is St. Thomas' Hospital. Your mother, Echo Holloway—she was admitted last night."
Mark sat upright, the sheet sliding from his chest. His eyes sharpened instantly. "Admitted? For what?"
The nurse hesitated, then continued: "She delivered a child this morning."
For a second, the world seemed to stop.
Mark's brow furrowed. "That's not possible."
"I assure you, sir. A girl. Healthy.Echo asked that we dial this landline."
Mark stared at the wall, the words failing to take shape. A child. His mother. At her age. It didn't make sense. He had been consumed by the empire, by Chronium, by power, and somehow, impossibly, life had been moving elsewhere.
A soft hand slid across his chest. Sabrina stirred awake, her hair tumbling loosely around her shoulders. She pulled the sheets against herself, bare beneath them, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
"What's wrong?" she murmured.
Mark pressed the receiver tighter to his ear, his mind still spinning.
"I'll be there soon."
He dropped the phone onto the cradle, stood, and began pulling on his clothes. White shirt, suspenders, leather watch — the uniform of control. But his hands moved too quickly, fumbling at the buttons.
"Mark?" she asked again, her voice softer now.
"Not now." He leaned down, brushed a quick kiss across her forehead, already at the door. "I'll be back."
St. Thomas' Hospital, London
The building loomed in pale daylight, its stone facade weathered by decades of illness and healing. Mark pushed through the sliding doors, the smell of disinfectant sharp in his nose. His footsteps echoed across the sterile lobby as he strode to the front desk.
"Patient name: Echo Holloway." His voice was clipped, urgent.
The receptionist typed quickly, eyes flicking up. "Room 308. Fifth floor."
Mark turned, saw the elevator doors closing, and lunged — too late. The metal sealed shut before his hand touched it. He swore under his breath and pivoted, taking the stairs two at a time. The stairwell was narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent tubes. His breath came sharp, his polished shoes slamming against the concrete steps. Fourth floor. Fifth.
As he burst through the door, he collided with a nurse carrying a tray of instruments. The tray clattered, metal echoing down the corridor.
"Sorry," Mark muttered, barely slowing, his pace relentless.
Room 308. He threw the door open. The room was quiet. Sunlight leaked through the blinds in pale strips. Machines hummed softly. And there she was.
Echo Holloway. Frail, pale against the white sheets, her breathing shallow but steady. Her silver hair was damp against her forehead. Beside her, in a clear bassinet, a newborn girl slept, her tiny chest rising and falling with the fragile rhythm of new life.
Mark approached slowly, his hands trembling despite himself. He reached for his mother's hand, and her eyes fluttered open.
For a moment she smiled, weak but radiant. Then the smile broke, and tears welled.
"Mark…" Her voice cracked. "I should have told you sooner. I should have—"
He shook his head, cutting her off. "No, Mom. Don't." His voice wavered, the confidence stripped away. "If anyone is to blame, it's me. I've been too busy proving myself… and I forgot the only thing that mattered."
Her tears slid across her cheeks. His thumb brushed her knuckles gently, grounding them both in the moment.
"Get some rest," he whispered. He bent, kissed her forehead softly.
He straightened, his eyes lingering on the sleeping child. The girl shifted slightly, a tiny hand curling into a fist as though grasping at the future.
Mark turned and left the room without another word.
Behind him, the machines hummed, the baby breathed, and Echo Holloway closed her eyes again, whispering silent prayers only she could hear.
Mark pushed the door open, calling softly,
"Sabrina?"
The townhouse smelled faintly of fresh coffee and warm bread. The morning light slipped through half-drawn curtains, painting the floor in soft gold.
"In here," her voice floated back, light and unbothered.
He stepped into the kitchen — and stopped.
Sabrina stood barefoot by the counter, pouring milk into two mugs. She wore a full-sleeved formal shirt, half-buttoned, loose against her frame. Below, only knickers. Her hair was untied, falling over her shoulders, and she looked effortlessly beautiful — as though intimacy itself had dressed her.
Mark frowned. "Why is the front door open?"
She looked up, feigning guilt. "Oh, that? I went to collect the milk."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
She grinned, biting her lip. "Would you rather I let you drink your coffee black?"
He smirked despite himself, stepping closer. But her eyes studied him with sudden seriousness.
"What happened?" she asked gently. "You left in such a hurry. You look… tired. Was I—" she hesitated, her tone turning playful, "—was I bad in bed?"
Mark's head snapped up. "No. No, no, no." His hands lifted in mock surrender. "It's not that. You were—" He stopped, shaking his head. "It's my mom."
Sabrina's smile faded. "Your mom? What about her? Is it serious?"
Mark exhaled, running a hand down his face. "She was admitted to the hospital. And she… gave birth."
For a second Sabrina simply blinked. Then the shock hit. "Wait—what? Oh my god. She—your mom—gave birth?!"
Mark nodded, almost wincing.
Sabrina placed the mug down slowly, her hand trembling just enough for him to notice. Then, after a beat, she exhaled and whispered,
"Wow. That's… messed up."
"Yeah," Mark muttered.
She crossed the space between them, her expression softening.
"You should be with her, Mark. Right now. She must be emotional. Guilty even. You're her son. She needs you."
"I can't," he said quickly, almost defensively. "I just—" He hesitated, gesturing vaguely between them. "I just slept with you. And now if I—"
Sabrina touched his arm, silencing him.
"Mark. Listen to me. There's nothing wrong with us. Nothing." Her voice lowered, steady and warm. "I love you. Not because of last night. Not because of lust. I've been watching you for months. Four months, to be exact."
Mark blinked. "Four?"
"Yes," she said, almost laughing at herself. "Four months. I've spoken to you, seen you in meetings, in corridors. You've helped me more times than you probably remember. And I thought we were close. I thought you were different. So when this happened…" She stopped, exhaled sharply. "Ugh. Leave it. Forget I said anything."
Mark stepped back, guilt written across his face.
"Oh, damn. Sabrina, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I talk to a lot of people, I didn't realize—" He stumbled, words tripping over themselves. "It's not like I—like I had sex with you just because you were…"
She tilted her head, a slow smile forming. "Because I was what?" Her voice teased him, soft, amused.
Mark's mouth opened, closed. "You were… you know."
Sabrina chuckled, tapping his shoulder. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless." She leaned in, kissed his cheek lightly, and whispered, "Go. Be with your mom. I can wait."
He looked at her for a long moment — the half-buttoned shirt, the bare legs, the way she could turn heartbreak into humor in a single breath. He kissed her deeply, briefly, then pulled away.
"I'll be back," he said.
"I'll hold you to that," she replied, smiling, her eyes warm with something more than desire.
The Holloway Mansion
The Holloway mansion stood like a monument to ghosts. Red brick, ivy crawling across its walls, iron gates taller than most houses. It had seen three generations of Holloways live, die, and pass their legacies into the world. Every corridor carried echoes — Arthur's footsteps in the study, his grandfather's laughter in the ballroom, the silence of servants who had long since buried their loyalty in duty.
Mark stepped out of the Jaguar, the gravel crunching beneath polished shoes. Two of the 150 security guards saluted. Beyond the gates, twenty-five dogs prowled the perimeter, their growls deep and restless. Holloway wealth had bought safety in numbers, but not peace of mind.
Inside, the mansion was colder than he remembered. Chandeliers lit empty halls, portraits of stern Holloway men glared down from the walls. A servant hurried forward, bowing his head.
"Welcome home, Mr. Holloway." He slipped the coat from Mark's shoulders with practiced efficiency.
"Where is my mother?" Mark asked, his voice flat.
"In the east wing, sir. The drawing room."
Mark nodded, already turning. He had almost forgotten about the passages — the labyrinthine hallways his ancestors had built to keep their secrets safe. For years he had avoided them, living in his study, drowning himself in ledgers and files. Business school had taken his days, his father's notes had stolen his nights. Echo had become little more than a figure he passed in the halls, a presence he barely acknowledged.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the nurse's call, the hospital, the child — it gnawed at him until he could no longer ignore her.
He found her in the drawing room. Echo sat by the window, a shawl draped around her shoulders, the faint glow of a lamp painting her face in soft gold. She looked older than he remembered — grief had carved fine lines at the edges of her eyes, loneliness had bent her posture.
"Mother," Mark said quietly.
She turned, and for a moment her face lit up. "Mark."
He crossed the room and sat opposite her. For a long while, they spoke of small things — the house, the staff, his endless hours of work. But the words felt brittle, fragile, as though both knew the real conversation had yet to begin.
Finally, Echo sighed. "Mark, there's something you should know."
Her fingers twisted the edge of her shawl. Her eyes met his, steady but apologetic.
"After your father passed… I was alone. The house was empty, your studies kept you away, and I…" Her voice faltered. "I met someone. David Brown."
Mark froze. "The tobacco man."
"Yes." She nodded slowly. "CEO of Brown Tobacco. We… grew close. He was kind when I needed kindness. Strong when I needed strength. I married him."
Mark's jaw clenched. "Married?"
Her eyes dropped. "And we had a child. A daughter. Christine."
Silence stretched across the room like a blade.
Mark rose, pacing to the fireplace, staring into the flames. The name Brown was not unknown to him. Rivals in business. Another empire of smoke and ash. To accept this man as family felt like betrayal, as though Arthur's shadow had been replaced too quickly, too easily.
"Do you expect me to call him father?" Mark's voice was low, dangerous.
"No," Echo said softly. Tears welled in her eyes. "I only expect you to understand that I was human. That I was lonely. And that Christine… is your sister."
Mark turned, his expression hard. He wanted to rage, to accuse, to remind her of Arthur's legacy. But then he remembered the hospital room, the tiny fist curled in sleep, fragile and innocent.
He exhaled slowly. "Then I'll meet him."
Echo blinked. "David?"
"Yes." Mark's voice sharpened with resolve. "If he's part of this family now, I need to know the man who thinks he can sit at our table. We'll have dinner. Tonight."
Echo's tears slipped down her cheeks, but for the first time in years, she smiled.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel echoed across the courtyard. The Holloway estate's gates opened, and a dark Bentley glided through. David Brown stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks, his smile warm and familiar.
A servant hurried forward. "Good evening, Mr. Brown. Welcome back."
David handed over his keys with a nod. "Take care of her, would you? She's a little fussy if she sits too long."
The car was driven to the mansion's private garage — large enough to house a fleet of twenty. David adjusted his jacket, took in the towering facade of the Holloway estate. This was his fourth visit, yet the sheer scale of the house never failed to impress him.
Inside, the servants greeted him one by one. They spoke to him not with rehearsed politeness but with genuine warmth. David remembered their names, asked about their children, laughed easily at their small jokes. He treated them like people, not shadows.
It was a sharp contrast to Mark.
Mark Holloway never asked the staff about their meals or their families. To him, the servants were as much a part of the mansion as the marble floors and oil paintings — necessary, dependable, but invisible.
David was ushered into the grand dining hall. The chandeliers glowed with hundreds of tiny flames, casting golden light over the long table. A spread of dishes covered the surface — roasted meats, fresh bread, wine gleaming in crystal glasses.
David's eyes found Mark at the far end of the hall. The young CEO stood with a phone pressed to his ear, his back half-turned. David raised his eyebrows in greeting, a subtle, friendly gesture. But Mark, absorbed in his call, didn't notice.
Moments later, Echo entered. She wore a simple pale dress, her hair tied back, but she carried herself with grace. She smiled faintly at David as she took her place. Mark ended his call and joined them.
Christine's soft cries echoed faintly from the adjoining room, but a maid quickly soothed her, carrying the child gently away.
Dinner began. At first, the conversation was pleasant, almost warm. Mark initiated introductions, his tone clipped but civil.
"So," Mark began, his fork glinting under the chandelier, "David Brown. Tobacco, yes?"
"Yes," David replied easily. "Brown Tobacco. My father started it, I carried it forward. A smaller empire than yours, I'm afraid."
Mark smirked. "Smaller doesn't always mean weaker. Sometimes it just means hungrier."
David chuckled. "True. Though I've found hunger isn't everything. People matter more." He gestured to Echo. "Especially family."
Echo blushed faintly, lowering her eyes.
Mark's expression hardened. "Family, yes." He let the word hang, heavy with meaning. "Just to be clear, Mr. Brown… marrying my mother doesn't give you a stake in the Holloway legacy. Our company, our assets — they remain Holloway. You are welcome in her life, but not in the ledger of this family."
Silence fell. The clink of cutlery stopped. David studied him for a moment, then smiled.
"Of course. I have no interest in what is yours. Echo is enough."
Mark's jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. "Good."
The rest of dinner passed with polite conversation — talk of travel, of London, of books Echo had been reading. David charmed the maids with small jokes, drew smiles even from the guards posted near the door.
When the plates were cleared, Mark stood. "I'll walk you to the door."
Together they moved down the grand corridor. The house was quiet save for their footsteps.
"Christine," Mark said suddenly. "She's… your daughter."
David nodded. "She is. And Echo's. And, whether you accept it or not, she's your sister."
Mark looked away, staring at the portraits of his ancestors. Holloway men, stern and cold.
"She'll grow up in a complicated house."
"Then we make it simple for her," David replied. "We give her love."
Mark said nothing. At the door, David's car arrived. The valet opened it with a bow.
"Goodnight, Mark," David said warmly. "I hope we'll speak again."
Mark only inclined his head.
The Bentley rolled away into the night.
Mark stood in the doorway a moment longer, unsettled. The dinner had gone too smoothly. No shouting. No threats. Only David's calm agreement, his warmth, his unshakable patience.
It was disarming. And it troubled him.
Later, Mark found his mother in her bedroom, arranging pillows, preparing for sleep. She looked up as he entered.
"You like him," Mark said flatly, dropping into a chair.
Echo smiled gently. "Yes. I do."
Mark leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Why? How is he different from Arthur?"
For a moment, her eyes softened with memory. "Arthur was a good man. But he had his demons. He smoked, he drank, he lived for business. I became… background. An unpaid servant to his empire."
She looked away, her voice quieter. "David is different. He puts family first. He makes time. He sees me, Mark. Not as the wife of a Holloway. Not as an accessory to a company. Just… me."
Mark studied her in silence. For the first time in years, she looked at peace.
But for him, peace was harder to accept.
Mark sat in the armchair opposite his mother, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavier than the chandeliers above them. He had built his life on control, on never revealing weakness — yet the memory of Sabrina lingered, her laugh, her presence, the ease with which she slipped past his defenses.
He cleared his throat. "There's something I need to tell you."
Echo looked up from folding Christine's blanket. Her expression was gentle, expectant.
"Yes, Mark?"
He hesitated. For the first time in years, words seemed harder than numbers, harder than speeches before a thousand men.
"I… I was with a woman. Last night."
Her brows lifted, not in shock, but in curiosity.
"Sabrina," Mark continued, his voice firmer now. "Her name is Sabrina. I don't know why, but…" He trailed off, exhaling sharply. "I like her. More than I should."
Echo studied him, her eyes soft, unreadable. Then Mark's gaze sharpened suddenly. A thought struck him.
"How," he asked slowly, "did the nurse know I was in Sabrina's house? She called me there, not at the estate, not at the office. There."
Echo smiled faintly, almost amused. She leaned back in her chair, her hands folded neatly.
"So you finally figured it out," she said. "I already knew about Sabrina."
Mark's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"She's Bernard DeVere's daughter. You know Bernard — the one who parks the cars, who took David's Bentley ."
Mark blinked.
"Bernard wanted a future for her," Echo went on. "He asked me for help. So I recommended Sabrina to join Holloway Global Energy. She was bright, determined. I thought it would give her a chance."
Mark's chest tightened. "So you… placed her there?"
"She found you," Echo corrected softly. "And in time, she grew feelings for you. Strong ones. She calls me often, you know. Every day, sometimes. Telling me the smallest things — how you looked in a meeting, how you frowned when you were thinking, even how you stirred your coffee."
Mark's mouth fell open, caught between shock and disbelief. "You knew?"
"Of course." Echo chuckled. "A mother sees these things."
Mark leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "And you didn't tell me?"
Echo smiled, her eyes glimmering. "Because I wanted you to see her for yourself. And you did. More quickly than I expected."
Mark narrowed his eyes, feigning anger. "You were conspiring with her."
Echo laughed, a light sound the mansion hadn't heard in years. She reached forward, cupping his face as she had when he was a boy, and kissed his forehead.
"Don't lose her, Mark. She's a beautiful girl — not only in looks, but in heart. Personality like hers… it's rare. Trust me on that."
For a long moment, Mark said nothing. The weight of empires, of projects, of Arthur's shadow, all seemed distant.
All that remained was the warmth of his mother's words, and the thought of Sabrina — the servant's daughter who had somehow become the only person capable of disarming him.
Few months later. The summer afternoon was unusually warm for London. The Holloway Estate's private grounds stretched wide, trimmed lawns rolling into the distance. Sabrina stood with a golf club in her hands, her stance awkward but determined.
Mark stood behind her, adjusting her arms with careful precision.
"Elbows straight. Not too stiff. Let the swing flow."
She laughed nervously. "Easy for you to say. You've done this since you were a boy. I've barely held a club before."
"Then you'll learn." His voice softened. "From me."
She glanced back at him, catching his smirk, and rolled her eyes. "Arrogant."
He leaned closer. "Confident."
She giggled, the sound light and genuine, before turning her eyes back to the ball. Mark guided her hands once more, their fingers brushing, his expensive leather watch glinting in the sun.
She swung — and the ball arced through the air, not perfect, but graceful enough.
"I did it!" Sabrina gasped, turning to him with shining eyes.
Mark chuckled, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Of course you did."
They lingered there, sunlight spilling across them, laughter echoing across the empty course. In those hours, away from boardrooms and empires, Mark felt something unfamiliar. Peace.
For weeks, life had carried that rhythm. Dates hidden behind sunglasses and hats. Stolen hours in cafés. Walks in the city after midnight, when no one recognized him. Sabrina at his side in meetings, her presence a reminder that not everything had to be power and profit.
Everything was good. Almost too good.
The phone in Mark's pocket vibrated.
He frowned, pulling it out. Geoffrey Clarke. Loyal. Steady. The man who had served Arthur and now him. Geoffrey never called without reason.
Mark answered, his voice curt. "Yes?"
On the other end, Geoffrey's tone was low, urgent. "Sir… you need to come back to the office. Immediately."
Mark's brows knitted. "Why? What happened?"
A pause. Just long enough to make his stomach tighten.
Geoffrey exhaled sharply. "It's about the Chronium project. There's something you need to see."
The line went dead.Mark lowered the phone slowly, his eyes narrowing as the world around him seemed to shift.
Sabrina touched his arm gently. "Mark? What is it?"
He didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the horizon, where the sun was sinking behind the estate's trees, casting long shadows across the grass.
Something had changed. And the peace they had built was about to break.