When William Smith stepped outside the restaurant gate, the night air was crisp, biting at his skin, but he barely noticed. T.B. was already waiting in front of the car, standing at attention like a soldier awaiting orders, his expression unreadable, as always. The suitcase, packed with the bare necessities, was placed neatly in the back seat, while the sleek leather briefcase, carrying documents far more valuable than any article of clothing, rested on the front passenger seat, untouched, as if waiting for its master's hand.
Without a word, T.B. opened the car door for William, and as soon as he settled inside, they pulled away from the curb, heading toward Anchorage Airport in heavy silence. There was no need for conversation. T.B. knew the rules by heart—unless William spoke first, there was nothing to say. It had become their unspoken ritual.
Earlier, when T.B. had cleaned the clutter from William Smith's desk, stacking papers with the precision of someone who knew their weight in gold, he had caught sight of the files—real estate mortgage documents, thick with fine print and cold calculations. He had known for some time that Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company was struggling under the weight of the economic crisis, but he had not expected things to be so dire, so desperate, that William would go so far as to mortgage his penthouse in New York. The thought unsettled him, not because he cared about the penthouse, but because it meant that even someone like William Smith—unshakable, impenetrable, a man who had always controlled the tide rather than been swept away by it—was now being forced to bow to the brutal hand of reality.
These were difficult times for everyone. After the collapse of the U.S. economy post-pandemic, after the markets had crumbled and companies had drowned in debt, survival had become a game of predators and prey. And William Smith, no matter how powerful, was still a player in the same ruthless arena. Perhaps the new president, Trump, would change something, shift the tide, make things easier for men like William. But T.B. didn't waste time thinking about such things. His world had been reduced to a single orbit, revolving around one man and one family—the Smiths.
A businessman like William Smith never carried excess. Two tailored suits, pressed to perfection. Two ties, identical except for their shade of blue. A tie clip, embossed with the company's golden logo. A razor set. A toothbrush. A tube of toothpaste. Underwear, neatly folded. He never wore a dress shirt more than once; after a single use, it was discarded, as if to rid himself of even the faintest trace of the past.
"He doesn't care", T.B. thought as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers pressing into the leather with a quiet frustration that had no outlet. "He doesn't care if the food is good or bad. He doesn't care about his clothes. He doesn't care about the people around him. He's too austere, too strict—not just with others, but with himself. What he cares about, what he's always cared about, is money". The realization cut through him, sharp and bitter, filling his chest with something painfully close to sorrow.
Suddenly, without warning, William spoke, his voice a quiet blade slicing through the silence.
"Do you still have pain in your finger?"
T.B. stiffened. The question caught him off guard, colliding violently with his thoughts, scattering them like glass. For a moment, he said nothing. Just a second ago, he thought this man didn't care about anything or anyone. He was wrong. This man cared about everything and everyone, including T.B.
Then, when he found his voice, it came out uneven, shaken, betraying the emotions he usually kept locked away.
"I… I pressed the wound against a red-hot knife," he admitted, his words stumbling over themselves. "It's fine now."
A pause.
"Not good," William murmured, his tone unreadable, but with a touch of something unspoken, something that hinted at concern despite his indifference.
Silence settled between them again, heavy and unbreakable.
William reached for his briefcase, pulling out his iPad with the same calculated efficiency with which he handled everything else in his life. As he opened his email, his eyes remained fixed on the screen, but his next question came without hesitation, as if it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.
"Have you seen what's on the USB?"
T.B. nodded instinctively before realizing William couldn't see him. "Yes, Sir. There was only one link. It leads to the homepage of the General Department of Hydrometeorology."
William's gaze remained on his screen. "And the fairy tale book?"
"A story," T.B. replied, his voice steady despite the strangeness of the conversation. "About two brothers who got lost in the forest… and were eaten by a witch."
Silence.
The Range Rover pulled smoothly into the airport entrance, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between them. T.B. stepped out first, moving with precision, opening the back door and pulling out the suitcase, placing it carefully on the platform as if its weight carried something more than just fabric and steel.
Then, as if sensing the hesitation in the air, William spoke again.
"Do you know I had to mortgage my property?"
T.B. didn't hesitate. "Yes, Sir. I hope you and Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company can overcome this difficult time."
William exhaled, the sound more like a sigh than he would have ever allowed himself in another moment. "We work tirelessly," he said, almost to himself, "to ensure that every employee has a job. I worry about my daughter. I worry about my niece. I want them to have a full, prosperous life. But you… you have followed me for a long time. Tell me, what do I have for myself?"
T.B. felt his throat tighten. He had always admired William—feared him, even. But now, hearing that quiet sorrow in his voice, it felt like a betrayal of everything he thought he understood. The man who never bent, who never yielded to weakness—now showing something softer, something human.
"Sir… you are generous. You have given much to others." T.B. hesitated, something heavy settling in his gut. "Sir. Let me go with you. I worry about your safety."
"Enough." William cut him off, his tone final, though a trace of weariness lingered. "Today, I return to New York. You should stay here. Protect my daughter. Protect my niece. Anderson Jr. Seely doesn't have my full trust yet. You understand, don't you?" William let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "Are you tired of them? A depraved old woman and an impulsive child?" He shook his head, his gaze sharpening. "You stay. Protect them. And if this project succeeds, you will have your share."
T.B. swallowed, a knot forming in his throat. "Thank you, Sir. Though I do not bear your last name, I have long considered myself a Smith."
"Good," William murmured, a strange softness in his tone. Then, after a beat: "I don't have a son. But if you make her having a baby, you will be my son-in-law. My property will be yours. My money will be yours."
The words struck like thunder.
T.B. felt something cold grip his spine. His breath hitched. "Why?--" He asked, a cold sweat prickling his skin. "How do you know this?"
William did not answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his eyes and looked over T.B. Those eyes that had seen too much, carried too much, and yet, in this moment, looked weary, as if the weight of the years had suddenly caught up to him.
"I knew her nature," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I am her father." The words were not so much spoken as they were felt, heavy and regretful. William's gaze dropped, his eyes growing distant as though the weight of the realization had settled deep within him. The stern lines of his face softened, briefly revealing something raw beneath the cold exterior—a sorrow so deep that it threatened to consume him.
For a moment, he stood still, his body rigid but his soul visibly weary. It was as if the realization of who his daughter truly was—the one thing he could never change—had finally broken through his impenetrable shell. A sharp pang of loss passed over him, one that had never really gone away, only buried beneath layers of power and control. His lips tightened, but there was no anger in his expression, only the quiet resignation of a man who had come to terms with the inevitability of his own failure.
The weight of his unspoken thoughts pressed in the air around them, and for just a heartbeat, William Smith seemed small—vulnerable, even. But only for a moment, before the mask slipped back into place.
T.B. turned, instinctively following the direction of William's gaze, and in that moment, his breath caught.
Kimberly Smith.
She was walking toward them, her stride confident, effortless, the weight of the suitcase in her hand barely enough to slow her pace. She moved through the crowd with an unmistakable power, her beauty drawing the eyes of everyone within range. They couldn't look away. She didn't need to try—she just was. Her presence was undeniable, commanding attention with every step.
The crowd seemed to part for her, as if the air itself was rearranging to make room for her. And William, the man who controlled everything, who stood in the shadows, watching his empire unfold at his feet, now stood there like a normal old man. He watched her, and for once, his impenetrable demeanor cracked, revealing the quiet, aching sorrow of a father who knew exactly who his daughter was.