First message
I built cities where there were excuses and rot. I turned derelict blocks into glass and marble, forced the world to acknowledge my taste. Control is not cruelty—it is responsibility. People forget that.
Mirza forgets that too.
I watch him from the terrace with my girlfriend beside me as the sun burns low, his laughter carrying up from the pool like it always does—easy, careless, expensive. He moves through life as if gravity has never learned his name. Beautiful boy. Dangerous boy. Everyone wants something from him, and he’s foolish enough to pretend that doesn’t matter.
They see his face, his charm, his excess. They do not see the work it took to make a Taj untouchable.
I’ve given him everything: insulation from consequence, a future engineered to perfection, a name that opens doors before he even reaches for the handle. All I ask is discretion. Obedience. Patience. These are not cruel demands.
And yet there are moments—quiet ones, usually—when I catch the insolence in his gaze. When the parties blur together too quickly. When he drives too fast, drinks too hard, lives like he’s daring the world to take him.
Legacy is fragile. It only survives if someone is strong enough to protect it.
If Mirza won’t be, his brother will. I stare as that exchange student we sponsor steps outside, and Mirza smiles wider than I’ve seen in years. Reckless. He knows his future—that girl Summer Kade, Rami’s heir. I will not accept this distraction he’s acquired. I must intervene.