Anna

Chapter 5

Sydney shimmered behind the tinted windows of his silver Mercedes. The city pulsed with its own frantic, kinetic energy. Business districts blurred into parks, and the glass facets of skyscrapers caught the brilliant Australian sun. Nick Creighton drummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel with a faint, almost imperceptible irritation, watching the waterfront give way to the dense, sprawling architecture of the financial hub. At twenty-seven, he possessed everything most people only dared to dream of, yet deep down, he felt a strange, pervasive chill. He had no desire to be merely the face of his father’s latest financial venture. Nick dreamed of proving that he was capable of more than just being a wealthy man’s son.

Nick cast a brief glance into the rearview mirror. He possessed a sharp, resolute profile inherited from his father, and the deep, attentive gray eyes of his mother. His thick, raven-black hair was styled in a neat but natural cut—devoid of the glossy vanity of gel, simple and understated. There was no performative flash to his appearance, just the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to relying on his own intellect, clad in a cashmere blazer and an open-collared shirt.

He pulled his sedan into his reserved spot at the foot of the Creighton-Global tower, a skyscraper his grandfather had commissioned.

"Good morning, Elisa," he said softly to the receptionist, offering a genuine smile. He never treated staff like common help. He remembered how grueling it was to work ten-hour shifts, and he valued every person who kept the machinery running.

"Good morning, Mr. Nick," Elisa replied, her smile reaching her eyes with a warmth that held no trace of obsequiousness.

The elevator carried him silently to the seventy-fifth floor. Here, silence reigned, broken only by the muffled clicking of keyboards. His father’s secretary, a gaunt woman with a stony expression, offered a curt nod as she opened the massive dark oak doors for him.

Kern Creighton’s office was a museum of authority. A cavernous mahogany desk that could accommodate an entire battalion, a panoramic view of Sydney from the heights, and an atmosphere permeated with the scent of expensive tobacco. Kern stood at the window, surveying the city like a general regarding a battlefield.

"You are seven minutes late, Nick," his father said, his voice dry.

"Traffic, Father. Sydney has its hiccups. There’s a minor fire somewhere. A massive gridlock."

Nick walked to the desk and placed a folder upon it. It was his project—a solar power plant in the heart of the Victoria desert with an integrated crypto-farm.

"It’s ambitious," Kern said, flipping through the pages without sitting down. "You want a loan? From your own father?"

"I want this to be my business, not a hobby project for a banker's son," Nick replied calmly. "I need a loan on standard market terms. If I fail, the bank takes the assets. I’m risking my name."

Kern sank slowly into his chair. He studied his son for a long moment, dissecting every feature of his face. There was something chilling about that gaze. He saw in Nick not a man with a dream, but an instrument for furthering his own dominance.

"You are as stubborn as your mother," Kern finally remarked. "But you are smart. Very well. The loan is approved."

Nick felt a surge of relief that immediately gave way to wariness. His father never gave anything away for free.

"What’s the catch?" Nick asked directly.

Kern pulled a photograph from his desk drawer. It depicted a young woman in an exquisite evening gown—Eleonora, the daughter of Australia's influential Minister of Energy, Sir Robert Hall.

"Your venture requires political will. Energy in Victoria is a minefield. A marriage to Eleonora is a consolidation of resources that would make your project untouchable."

"I don’t want to turn my life into a transaction, Father. Eleonora is a lovely girl, but love isn't something I’ve factored into my plans."

"Love is a fairytale for those who don’t have an account at our bank," Kern snapped. "The engagement will take place this weekend. That is the condition for your project’s support. You either join the Hall family, or your solar park stays on paper."

Nick felt a surge of tension, his hands clenching into fists. The project was the purpose of his life. It was his only path to true independence.

"Fine," he said hollowly. "I agree. If that is the price for my autonomy."

Stepping out of the office, Nick felt a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He headed toward the exit, nodding politely to employees along the way. In the first-floor lobby, the hum of conversation died the moment he appeared. Here, among the chrome columns, life seethed with an energy that had nothing in common with the icy stillness of the seventy-fifth floor. Corporate staff in rigid suits scurried past, heads tucked into their shoulders. Nick caught his reflection in a polished column. He looked like one of them, yet he felt like an alien in this anthill.

His gaze snagged for a second on a massive monitor on the lobby wall. Stock charts flickered on the screen. Routine. Nick winced. This entire "Creighton-Global" machine functioned like a well-oiled gear, grinding up the fates of others, selling their time for the sake of his father's empire. All for the sake of digits in a private account. His father called it business. To Nick, it looked more and more like a maximum-security colony.

Stepping outside, he inhaled the humid Sydney air. Across the way, in the park, a flock of bright green parrots flew noisily from palm to palm. Nick paused, watching the birds. They were free. They had no bank accounts or ambitious fathers. For a fleeting second, he felt a sharp pang of envy for those creatures.

Nick sat in his car but didn't rush to turn the ignition. The Mercedes had baked in the sun, and the interior was stifling. He simply cracked the windows.

"Father wants me to be part of an elite club? Fine," he said aloud. "But Kern shouldn't think I’m going to be his puppet."

The blueprints of his project contained far more than just a business plan. It was his vision. His brainchild. His ecosystem. Completely independent of anyone’s influence. As soon as he spun up those power capacities, he would be virtually invulnerable to his father’s ambitions. To Kern’s plans for his son. If he had to pretend to be a dutiful, good boy for a while longer to achieve that, so be it.

Nick hit the Start button. The engine responded with a deep, guttural roar that briefly drowned out the city noise. He pulled into traffic, feeling the adrenaline begin to push aside the tension. An airfield awaited him, where a corporate jet was already prepped for departure. He was flying to the desert, where construction on his crypto-farm was rapidly beginning under the scorching sun. And Nick himself was eager to get his hands on these vital processes.

The entire drive to the airport, he tried to quiet his anxiety. His father’s face remained etched in his mind—cold as a granite slab. Nick had always understood that Kern wasn't the kindest man in the world, but today, he had seen something in his eyes that made his heart race. It wasn't just greed; it was something systematic, almost machine-like. His father was part of a structure that didn't forgive weakness, and now that structure was reaching its tentacles toward the thing Nick held most dear—his dream of clean energy and personal freedom.

Pulling up to the private hangar, he saw his plane. A Cessna Citation Mustang. A tiny, nimble aircraft against the backdrop of massive hangars. Nick loved this airfield. He loved this plane. A small, fast mustang. He always flew it alone. No pilots, no flight attendants.

The mechanic, an elderly man with perpetually oil-stained hands, waved from afar.

"Ready for departure, Mr. Creighton?" the mechanic asked as Nick approached the aircraft.

"Yes, Frank. I’m already looking forward to it," Nick replied, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "A few hours in the sky is exactly what I need right now. A bit of a break."

Nick hopped into the cockpit. He engaged the engines one by one. The turbines hissed with a soft whistle as they gained momentum.

The sound was like a balm to his soul. Nick felt the tension draining from his shoulders.

The plane rolled slowly along the taxiway toward the runway. A couple of routine radio exchanges with the dispatcher, and the Mustang sprinted down the strip, lifting off the ground with a surge of energy, and soon, turning into a tiny speck, it melted into the blue of the clear sky.