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A nap is what I need, and while putting on jeans and a plain t-shirt, I contemplate going into my office, leaving the phone outside, and locking the door. My villa office is a gray soundproof cubicle. At least there, I can close my eyes and not bother about the outside world.
Like a predator that senses everything, my phone rings.
Amir’s name flashes on the screen.
He is the one person who can handle this island and Gen-Alpha if anything ever happens to me. He rarely calls. Never annoys me. The call will be brief, so I pick up.
“Archer.” He is a man of few words. I wish he taught the art of speaking to all my employees.
“Amir,” I answer calmly. “How is it going?”
He flew to the island after the Change. My father’s connection, he is in his early thirties, with a degree in engineering and millions in his account. Quiet, serious, speaks three languages, including Arabic, which is a huge help, considering the Arabs are our main dealers in the Middle East and Asia. His father runs a security firm in the Emirates. A quarter of our security contractors come from there—something I am not so easy about.
“Everything is fine,” Amir says. “I wouldn’t bother you, but Mr. Kishida just called. He wants to have a virtual meeting with the rest of the board members at midnight. The time works for everyone’s time zone.”
It’s common for us, the top tier, to work at night when we have important meetings or deals. Another thing that contributes to my insomnia.
I grit my teeth.
“You missed the previous three meetings, Archer. Naturally, they are concerned.”
Concerned.
Gen-Alpha is on autopilot for now until we approve the new formula. What they are concerned about is the island and the Center, not me.
Before, I felt irreplaceable. Granted, I am the brain behind the formula and hold the major stakes in Gen-Alpha.
But now that the project has rolled out in more than half of the countries around the world, I feel less invested.
“I’ll stop by in the afternoon,” I say. “I’m bringing a new person in.”
This means I need to sober the fuck up.
I’ve entertained the idea of resigning from the board for months. Never told Dad. He will throw a fit. But somehow, I give fewer and fewer fucks every day about the one thing that was my whole focus in the last years. A dream once upon a time.
A beep comes from my phone.
Speaking of the devil.
Marlow, who is in charge of Ayana security, should be sweating his ass off to fix the security issues.
Marlow: Dropped the three on the Eastside. Clothes, supplies, food. All good.
The Eastside should be grateful, now that the stupid standoff is over and their self-hailed king, Droga, is off to the mainland with his blondie.
Two years ago, when we got the news about the nuclear bombs, shit hit the fan. We were attacked by the Savages from town. Several spring-breakers were killed. When you see the dead bodies of the friends who only earlier that morning were partying on yachts and belonged to the richest families, life makes a 180-degree-turn. An argument with Bo, Ty, Droga and over a dozen others turned vicious and almost killed another person. They were banned to the Eastside to live like Robinsons Crusoe for two years.
Move on, right?
I make myself a drink, pop a painkiller, and slump on the couch.
The villa is quiet, and I close my eyes, enjoying the silence.
Yeah, it’s hard to move on when you lose people who mean the world to you.
The guilt from the fire accident haunted me for years. I didn’t mean to push Droga that night four years ago. What was stronger than guilt was the hurt from losing my best friend. I’ve never had a bond as strong with any other person. To be fair, not even my little bro before I lost him.
But life works in mysterious ways.
