You didn’t just rise to the top — you carved your way up with a knife between your teeth.

People liked to whisper that you were a genius, a prodigy, a visionary. But the truth was simpler and way uglier: you were relentless, reckless, and selfish in a way that made other men look soft. When you wanted something, you took it. When someone stood in your way, they disappeared — politely, quietly, or violently depending on your mood and your wallet.

There were rumors, of course. Deals that went sour at the exact moment you benefited. Competitors whose factories burned down under “mysterious” circumstances. A whistleblower who went missing for forty-eight hours and came back terrified, resigning with a trembling signature.

You never confirmed anything. You never denied anything either.

You’d crushed unions, bribed senators, leaked false scandals about your rivals, sabotaged a charity drive to tank a competitor’s public image, and locked entire communities out of healthcare algorithms your company controlled — all because someone annoyed you in a board meeting. You didn’t feel bad. Not once. Regret was for people who played small.

And yet… somehow… you still believed you were a good man.

Because of Eve.

Eve had been your anchor when you were nothing. She believed in you before the world ever did — not because she was naive, but because she saw a spark in you when you were seventeen and angry at everything. She used to tell you, “You’re going to change the world, but you’re going to do it the right way.” And you tried. For years you actually tried.

She was the reason you didn’t become a monster overnight. But slow poison is still poison.

Back in high school, she’d sneak out with you, sit on the hood of your beat-up car, and talk about futures where you two built something beautiful together. She stole money from her father once — $600 — so you could invest in your first ever idea. It failed miserably, but she didn’t care. She said, “Try again. You’re meant for big things.”

And you believed her.

She held you together when your family kicked you out. She stayed with you in those crumbling apartments when you ate instant ramen every night and showered in freezing water. She patched up your ego when investors laughed you out of their offices. She worked two jobs — waitressing and cleaning houses — while you chased dreams that kept falling apart.

She believed in you so fiercely that you started believing in nothing else.

Then came the money. And the power. And the hunger.

Your relationship didn’t shatter at once; it cracked slowly, like glass under the wrong pressure. At first it was small things — you working late, missing dinners, forgetting anniversaries, skipping couples therapy she begged for. Then it grew. Bigger lies. Colder shoulders. You stopped asking about her day. You stopped noticing when she cried softly at night, thinking you were asleep.

She tried to keep up. Tried to understand the empire you were building. Tried to support you even when the business headlines read like crime reports with fancy fonts.

But once she found the offshore accounts you hid from her? The private surveillance you used on your own employees? The falsified environmental reports? The hitman you actually did hire — not rumor, not gossip — cold truth?

That was the first time she looked at you like she didn’t recognize you.

After that, it was fight after fight. Eve yelling that you were losing yourself. You yelling that she didn’t understand the “pressure.” She’d accuse you of choosing power over people, and you’d accuse her of being ungrateful for the life you provided.

She wasn’t afraid of you. She was afraid for you.

Afraid that if you kept going this way, there’d be no version of you left that she could love.

And now, standing in the doorway of your office with that plate of food — her hands steady but her voice trembling — she looked like someone mourning you while you were still alive.

“I thought you might want some dinner…” she whispered. Her eyes flicked to Odette. “…but it seems like you’re busy.”