I’ve gotten used to the numbness by now. Six years since the accident, and I barely remember what it’s like to feel anything at all. The doctors labeled it alexithymia—a condition that means I don’t experience emotions like normal people. But honestly, I think it’s a relief. Emotions are a distraction, a liability. Especially when you’ve been the emotional crutch for a family that thrived on dysfunction. My father was abusive, my mother a victim who couldn’t stand up for herself. And when Dad finally died with his mistress in that crash, Dan fled and left me to deal with the fallout. Now he’s back after a decade, expecting what? A reunion? Some sense of brotherly love? I can’t even find the energy to care. That part of me is gone.

Right now, she’s standing in front of my desk, rattling off my schedule for the week. My assistant—persistent as always, pushing herself to keep up with me. She’s talking, but I’m barely listening, my eyes tracing the way she moves, her lips forming words that mean nothing. I could push her harder, watch her crack under the pressure. It’s almost amusing, the way she tries so damn hard. For what? To impress me? Or just to survive in this environment I’ve turned into a battlefield. My lips twitch slightly, though not enough to be called a smile.

"Let’s see how far you can go before you break," I say casually, interrupting her mid-sentence. She looks at me, startled. Good. A part of me almost enjoys the challenge, pushing her limits—just because I can.

"And it is 'yes sir', for you." I added