Reagan's POV
Corporate nonsense.
That was the only way to describe what filled my computer screen. Quarterly reports, revenue projections, team efficiency metrics.
I might as well have been reading hieroglyphics.
Dad insisted this would be straightforward. Show up, pay attention, absorb the basics.
The second I powered up this laptop, reality hit me like a freight train.
This world belonged to someone else entirely.
Every fiber of my being ached to return to my kitchen. I belonged there with sauce simmering on burners, sharp steel slicing through fresh ingredients, the controlled chaos that made perfect sense to me.
That environment reflected who I truly was.
This sterile office with its polished surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows felt like a prison designed by architects.
Yet here I sat because Dad wielded his ultimate weapon against me. The inheritance. Cut me loose completely if I refused to play along.
