Page 1 of The Founder's Power

CHAPTER1

DAMIAN

Istare out the floor-to-ceiling window of my corner office, the city below cast in a warm, golden hue. The sun is setting behind the skyline, splashing fire across the glass towers, but all I see is a reflection—my own. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.

My reflection doesn’t flinch when my assistant knocks. She knows better than to wait for an answer.

“Mr. Kincaid, your meeting with the London investors starts in ten.”

“Push it.”

There’s a beat of hesitation before she retreats. I don’t blame her. I’m unpredictable these days. Ruthless, they say in the press. Focused. Brilliant. But none of that means anything at this hour.

I turn away from the window, crossing to my desk. Every surface in this office gleams—polished mahogany, Italian leather, brushed steel. My empire is flawless. Impeccable. Empty.

My phone buzzes with a new notification. I don’t check it. I already know it’s another alert, another congratulation, another deal going through. We just closed on a merger that took two years to orchestrate. I should feel something. Satisfaction. Relief. Pride.

Instead, there’s only silence.

I sit, the chair groaning slightly under me, and run my hand across the edge of the desk where she once leaned, laughing at something I said. Her voice used to cut through the noise in my head like a melody I never knew I needed.

Isabelle.

The name alone still hurts, which is ridiculous. It’s been years.

She told me once that love wasn’t supposed to feel like a burden. That I made her feel like a liability to be managed instead of someone to be cherished. She was right.

I grip the edge of the desk, jaw tight. I’ve built a kingdom since then. Multinational. Untouchable. And yet, in the quiet moments, I still reach for something that’s no longer there.

I haven’t seen her since she walked out.

I haven’t let anyone in since.

And maybe that’s the price of power. You get everything you thought you wanted. You just lose the one thing you can’t buy back.

The door swings open without a knock.

Only one man has the audacity—and the clearance—to walk in like that.

“Don’t you believe in knocking?” I mutter without looking up.

Lucas Ashford’s laugh cuts through the stillness, the sound deep, easy, annoyingly unbothered. “You say that like I haven’t known you since you were hoarding vending machine pretzels in the back of our dorm room.”

I look up. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, but he’s loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt like he’s already done with the day or never took it seriously in the first place. Lucas has always had that relaxed arrogance, like the rules are just helpful suggestions for other people.

“You’re late,” I say.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Didn’t stop you.”

He grins, stepping inside like he owns the place. He doesn’t, but he’s one of the few people in this world who could get close. We’ve circled the same financial stratosphere for years—sometimes competitors, sometimes reluctant allies, always circling with wariness and familiarity.

Lucas picks up a crystal paperweight from my desk, turns it over in his hand, then sets it back down in precisely the wrong spot. “This place still feels like a museum exhibit. No pictures, no clutter, no soul.”

“It has function.”

“It has walls,” he says pointedly, eyes on mine. “Thick ones. Around everything. Including you.”

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