"And Alexander wept for there were no more worlds left to conquer."

A quote echoed in Russ' mind all night, the only sound breaking the silence as he sat alone in his office, sipping brandy. He despised the pounding in his sleepless head almost as much as he loathed the quiet. After years of thriving in the chaos of business, even the soft chirp of crickets made his skin crawl.

He had always been the black sheep of the Snyder family—balding, greying, and short. His heart was kind, a stark contrast to the pitch-black hearts of his father and brothers. Jacqueline had been his one source of joy. Her name alone was sweeter on his lips than the cognac he sipped so slowly. He longed to see her again, but she was gone, now a talent agent and, as he last heard, happily married.

They had been married once, though he was comatose at the time, flattened by an electric car. The only silver lining was a life-saving surgery, turning this bridge troll into a handsome prince with piercing blue eyes, golden locks, and a chiseled jawline. He used to fight for animals and the marginalized, but now his battles were about keeping his brothers out of their father’s will and holding on to the fortune he made from Washington Gun-Takers merchandise. He despised the name, not because he liked "Prancers" as a replacement for "Redskins," but because it had been Jacqueline’s idea. Lately, everything reminded him of her, especially after spotting her marriage announcement in the paper. Lucky guy. Lucky her. Unlucky him.

Love. That’s what he sacrificed to gain his family’s acceptance, never realizing he already had the perfect woman by his side. The one who cared for him, even when he was unconscious and wrapped in bandages like a mummy.

Love. It was an alien concept to the Snyder name—a name rooted in greed, excess, and exploitation. The old Russ would have preferred death over becoming the man he saw in the mirror each day.

He sat there alone that night, his eyes fixed on the dark New York skies. Every so often, his gaze drifted to the dusty law degree hanging on the wall, the one that symbolized all he fought for in the past. He used to be someone. A person. Now, he was just a pretty face. Jacqueline might have loved a pretty face by her side, but she would have killed to have the old Russ back.

Knock knock

"Enter," he barked, downing the rest of his cognac and wiping the faintest of tears from the corner of his eyes.