Beneath the vows

The golden rays of the morning sun streamed through the grand windows of Michael

Williamson's penthouse, illuminating the lavish space with an almost divine brilliance. But for Michael, the

light was less a blessing and more an intrusive reminder of the day he had yet to face. The faint hum of city life filtered through the thick glass, but the only sound in the apartment was the dull

beeping of an alarm clock that had long given up on its futile attempt to wake its owner. The plush sheets

tangled around Michael's frame as he groaned and rolled over, pulling a pillow over his head to block out

the world. When he finally cracked an eye open, the sight of the clock sent a jolt of adrenaline through his sleep-addled

brain. 9:45 AM. "Damn it," he muttered, throwing the pillow aside and scrambling out of bed. His father's Monday morning

meetings were sacred, starting promptly at 10:00 AM, and attendance was non-negotiable-especially for

him. Stumbling into the bathroom, Michael caught a glimpse of his reflection. The dark circles under his piercing

gray eyes betrayed the late night he'd had. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and his jaw

was dusted with stubble. The faint scent of stale whiskey clung to him like a ghost of his Sunday night

escapades. The previous evening replayed in his mind: the pounding bass of the nightclub, the swirl of neon lights, the

laughter of strangers who knew him only as the charming billionaire heir, and the feel of a glass in his hand, perpetually refilled. It had been a good night-at least until he woke up to reality. Michael threw on a crisp white shirt and navy slacks, his attire doing little to hide the chaos beneath. He

didn't bother with breakfast; he didn't have the time. Grabbing his phone and wallet, he rushed out the door, his heart pounding as he calculated how long it would take to get to the Williamson Industries skyscraper. At the Williamson Industries headquarters, Charles Williamson stood at the head of a sleek conference table, his presence commanding as ever. His tailored suit was as sharp as his gaze, which scanned the room with

an air of quiet authority. Around him, executives shuffled through notes, ready to present their reports. But Charles's mind wasn't on the quarterly figures or the latest market strategies. He was waiting-waiting

for the one person who should have been there ten minutes ago. His son. The door swung open, and Michael walked in, his usually confident stride faltering under the weight of his

father's disapproving gaze. "Nice of you to join us," Charles said, his voice cool but carrying an edge that made the room fall silent.

Michael flashed a weak smile, trying to mask his unease. "Sorry, Dad. Traffic was a nightmare."

"Traffic?" Charles repeated, his tone icy. He gestured toward the empty chair at the table. "Sit." The meeting resumed, but the tension between father and son was palpable. Michael pretended to focus on

the presentation slides, but his mind wandered. He could feel his father's eyes on him, heavy with

disappointment. When the meeting finally ended, the other executives filed out, leaving Michael alone with Charles. "You're late," Charles said simply, his voice deceptively calm as he closed a leather-bound portfolio. "I know. I said I'm sorry." Charles turned to face him, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Michael's. "Do you think this is a joke? That

this company, this legacy, is something you can treat as an afterthought?" Michael bristled under the scrutiny. "It's not like I missed anything important."

"Not important?" Charles's voice rose, his frustration breaking through. "This company is the product of

decades of hard work, sacrifice, and discipline. And you waltz in here late, acting as though it's beneath you

to show some respect." Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I was at the club last night, okay? It was Sunday-I

wanted to unwind before the week started." Charles's expression hardened, his disappointment cutting deeper than any words could. "The club. That's

your excuse?"

"Yes," Michael shot back, his tone defensive. "I'm twenty-five, Dad. I'm allowed to have a life outside of

work."

"A life," Charles repeated, his voice dripping with incredulity. "Do you think your 'life' is what's going to

keep this company afloat when I'm gone? Do you think your late nights and reckless behavior will earn you

the respect of the board or the trust of our investors?" Michael's temper flared. "Maybe I don't want to inherit the company. Ever think about that? Maybe I don't

want to spend my life buried in paperwork and meetings like you." Charles's jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn't respond, his silence heavier than any reprimand. When he

finally spoke, his voice was low but firm. "You don't have the luxury of running away from this, Michael. This isn't just about you. It's about everyone who relies on this company-the employees, the shareholders, the community. And it's about our family." Michael turned away, his fists clenched. "Our family, huh? You mean your empire. Your legacy. Don't

pretend this is about anything but your obsession with control." Charles stepped closer, his presence looming. "If you can't take this seriously, then step aside now. Admit

that you're not ready, and I'll find someone who is." The words stung more than Michael cared to admit. He spun around, his gray eyes flashing with defiance. "Fine. Maybe you should. Because I'm done trying to live up to your impossible expectations." The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Charles watched his son, his expression unreadable. Beneath

the frustration and anger, there was a flicker of something else-something softer.

"You think this is about me wanting to control you?" Charles said quietly. "It's not. It's about you becoming

the man I know you can be. The man this company-and this family-needs you to be." Michael didn't respond. He couldn't. The weight of his father's words settled over him, suffocating and

unrelenting. Later that evening, as Michael sat alone in his penthouse, the city lights twinkling outside, his father's words

echoed in his mind. You're not ready. Was he?

He drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass down, staring into the empty space of his apartment. The

life he'd built-the parties, the freedom, the endless indulgence-suddenly felt hollow. But the alternative-becoming his father's heir, stepping into a role that demanded more than he was willing

to give-felt just as daunting. As the hours ticked by, Michael found himself caught between two worlds: the carefree existence he had

always known and the legacy waiting for him to claim. In the quiet of the night, he whispered the question he couldn't answer. "Who am I supposed to be?".