Carson sat alone in his office, the blinds half-closed, a bottle of whiskey beside him. The room smelled of alcohol and stale air.
Papers were scattered across the desk, some stained with drops of amber liquid. His phone buzzed again, but he didn’t pick it up.
He knew who it was—his mother, or maybe the company lawyer. He didn’t want to hear another lecture.
He poured himself another glass, his hand slightly shaking. The first sip burned down his throat, but he didn’t care. It dulled the noise in his head—the voices, the news, the blame.
The McCoy family’s downfall was everywhere now. The newspapers called it “The Fall of the Golden Empire.”
The TV anchors spoke his name like it was a curse. His business partners avoided his calls. His friends stopped replying to his messages.
The
