NEW YORK CITY
A sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom slowed to a smooth stop in front of the tall glass headquarters.
Behind the car, a second black SUV pulled up. The doors opened immediately and two bodyguards stepped out, their eyes scanning the surroundings.
He descended with measured calm, each step deliberate, each movement carrying the effortless authority that commands and bends markets with a single decision.
His tailored charcoal suit fit him like it had been designed by precision rather than fabric.
The afternoon sun caught against the dark lenses of his sunglasses, hiding the sharp intelligence in his eyes.
The wind between the skyscrapers brushing against the coat.
Then the quiet shattered.
"Mr. Blackwood, is it true you're buying out the Delacroix company?"
"Sir! One comment about the relationship between you and your sister!"
"Are you interested in your P.A., sir?"
The reporters surged forward like a tidal wave breaking its banks.
Cameras flashed violently, bright bursts of white exploding in the air.
Microphones stretched toward him from every direction, their foam heads nearly colliding as voices overlapped in desperate urgency.
Security moved instantly.
Two men stepped forward, arms outstretched, forming a human barrier as more reporters tried to push closer.
"Step back. Please step back," one of them barked.
But the questions kept coming.
"Sir! Sir! Just one answer!"
Cameras flashed like lightning across the plaza
Through the chaos, he did not stop.
His expression remained carved from stone, lips set in a thin, unreadable line.
The shouting, the cameras, the frenzy…none of it seemed to reach him. If anything, he walked through it with the calm indifference of a man who had long ago grown used to the world chasing after him.
A black luxury sedan rolled forward nearby, its door already opened by a waiting chauffeur.
Still the reporters pushed.
"Mr. Blackwood, are the rumors true?"
He paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
The movement was small, but it was enough to silence half the voices around him.
Cameras lifted higher, reporters leaning forward in anticipation.
Slowly, he removed his sunglasses.
Cold, calculating eyes swept across the crowd.
For a heartbeat, the noise died.
Then he spoke, his voice calm and dangerously quiet.
"No comment."
He began walking toward the entrance of the company building, a towering structure of glass and steel with the company's name boldly displayed above the doors.
His guards followed quietly behind him, maintaining their distance as they escorted him toward the grand entrance.
The reporters had no choice but to leave.
------
CONFERENCE ROOM
They had been waiting for the CEO for over an hour. Their murmurs filled the entire floor, irritation thick in their voices.
Suddenly, the double doors opened.
A pair of dark, expensive shoes came into view.
He walked in as if he owned the air itself. His cologne carried the quiet weight of money, and his suit looked perfectly tailored, not just fitted, but claimed.
His personal assistant trailed closely behind him, composed and precise. He adjusted his glasses once, expression unreadable, tablet secured under his arm. He didn't speak, but nothing escaped him.
Ethan Blackwood didn't look at anyone as he took his seat at the head of the table. He removed his gloves, placed them neatly beside his tablet, and finally lifted his gaze.
No smile.
No greeting.
The conference room fell silent before he even spoke. Everyone held their breath. It wasn't courtesy, it was instinct.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the New York City skyline, late afternoon light cutting sharp angles across polished marble.
The golden reflection traced the side of Ethan's face, defining every feature of his with precision. Calm and untouchable.
The board members sat around the elongated table, each with a tablet open, each pretending to review numbers they already knew by heart.
"Continue," he said.
The CFO cleared his throat. "As I was saying, the media cycle has intensified. Several outlets are speculating about your…" He hesitated. "…personal life."
A screen flickered on. Headlines filled the wall.
WHY HAS ETHAN BLACKWOOD NEVER DATED PUBLICLY?
BLACKWOOD HEIR: BRILLIANT… BUT WHAT IS HE HIDING?
IS THERE AN UNSPOKEN RELATIONSHIP WITH HIS SISTER?
IS THE BOARD CONCERNED ABOUT SUCCESSION?
No one dared to look directly at him.
Ethan studied the headlines on his tablet. His eyebrow furrowed as his fingertip stopped on a particular phrase.
"The relationship with his sister."
He stared at it for a few seconds.
Then he leaned back.
"And this," he said evenly, "is affecting quarterly revenue… how?"
The CFO swallowed. "Stock dipped 3.1% since the market opened."
Silence stretched. The atmosphere thickened.
One board member shifted nervously. "Investors are uneasy. Stability requires optics."
Ethan's eyes moved to him.
No one could read his expression.
That was enough to make the man stop talking.
"Optics," Ethan repeated softly. "Are for politicians."
Chairman Roth finally spoke.
He was the only one in the room who attempted direct eye contact, though he couldn't hold it for long.
"This is about governance, Ethan. We cannot afford rumors that destabilize long-term confidence. Questions about your personal life create… unpredictability."
Those words always came wrapped in polite language.
Ethan clasped his hands on the table. Neutral and calculating.
"You're suggesting what?" he asked.
No one answered immediately.
Because everyone knew he already understood.
Before anyone could utter a word, he spoke again.
"If my private life becomes board-controlled," he said quietly, "then it ceases to be private."
"But…" Chairman Roth stopped when he met Ethan's cold gaze.
The air shifted.
Ethan stood slowly.
Every chair around the table straightened at once.
His assistant stepped forward smoothly. "Sir, analysts are projecting further decline if the narrative continues unchecked."
Ethan took his tablet. Scrolled once, then stopped.
A financial chart glowed beneath his fingers.
He set the tablet down.
"It will recover," he said.
Chairman Roth's voice lowered. "Unless this becomes leverage."
That was the threat. A silent implication that power, no matter how vast, was never untouchable.
Ethan adjusted his cufflinks. Silver. Minimal.
"Then control the narrative," he said.
"And how do you suggest we do that?" someone asked.
Ethan's gaze shifted toward the skyline beyond the glass walls.
New York City spread beneath him, a city that ran on perception.
His voice was cold when he answered.
"We don't suggest. We demonstrate."
The room went still. No one asked what that meant.
Because when Ethan Blackwood decided something, it happened.
"You need to fix this," Chairman Roth said quietly.
Ethan walked toward the doors.
Then paused.
A faint smirk touched his lips. Without turning back, he added, "Next time you panic over headlines, remember who built this company."
The doors closed behind him.
His assistant followed in long, unhurried strides.
—------------
Ethan's Office
"Cancel the remaining meetings for today," Ethan said leaning back on his black leather executive chair.
"Copy that sir," Sebastian, his P.A. said.
"Are you here to irk me also?" he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"Oh, sorry, your highness!" Sebastian playfully said
"Would you like to cool off?" Sebastian said leaning in.
"Are you alright?" He smiled lightly.
"Yep, yep. So I collided with one woman yesterday," Sebastian began.
"Spare the discussion about your flings," he said.
"Nah, this one is different. She might actually be your type," Sebastian teased.
The next words Ethan spoke made Sebastian's jaw drop. His blood, suddenly freezing.
He thought he hadn't heard right. He stared longer into Ethan's eyes as if asking for validation.
Ethan didn't blink.
He heard it clearly;
"I'm gynophobic."