Reagan's POV
This corporate nightmare was killing me slowly.
I glared at my laptop screen, drowning in project timelines and performance metrics that might as well have been written in ancient Greek. Dad swore this would be simple. Show up, pay attention, absorb the basics.
What a load of crap.
Every spreadsheet felt like another nail in my coffin. This sterile office with its polished floors and floor-to-ceiling windows was nothing but a prison dressed up in expensive suits.
I belonged in my kitchen, not here. Give me the sizzle of oil in a hot pan, the weight of a sharp knife in my hands, the controlled chaos of dinner service. That was my element.
This? This was slow torture.
But I was trapped here because of Dad and his ultimatum. Sign over the inheritance to some corporate vultures, or watch his only son finally step up. No middle ground. No second chances.
