Page 10 of Spearcrest Queen

Knight Media Group.

Seeing my name up there, presiding over the impeccably dressed reception staff, the security guards, the streams of people trickling in and out of the row of elevators past the three arches of the atrium,shouldfill me with power, with pride.

But if anything it makes me feel small.

And really fucking scared.

4

Nepo Baby

Evan

Although Dad used tobring me into the office every now and again when I was young, I’ve not been back here since I started Spearcrest. There’s an entire wall in there mounted with awards, achievements and framed articles, but it doesn’t feel as intimidating when I see Dad’s familiar face.

The relief is short-lived.

“Good, you’re here,” is his greeting. “Like I told you, you’ll be starting in Operations under Gilbert Coulter, on Floor Five.”

His voice is steady and unemotional, not unkind but detached.

“You’ll be helping his team handle schedules, reports, logistics. Gilbert’s one of our best, and he doesn’t cut corners or play favourites, that’s why I chose him. He won’t care that you’re my son. If you’re late, if you slack off, or if you show up with anything less than your best, he’ll pull you up on it.”

He pauses, leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed. His piercing blue eyes soften just slightly as he takes in my expression.

“I know this isn’t what you imagined for yourself, but it’s a starting point, Evan, and that’s something everyone needs—even you. Don’t underestimate the fact that even this role is a privilege: some people in New York study and compete for years just for entry positions like this one.”

He’s right, of course. It doesn’t make me less miserable, but it does remind me not to let my misery become too obvious. The last thing I need Dad to think is that I’m ungrateful as well as a total failure.

“You’ve got three months to show Gilbert and me that you’re serious about this,” he concludes. “After that, the three of us will sit down and review your performance. The meeting will be formal, I want you to treat it as such. If Gilbert thinks you’ve earned it, you’ll move on to a role with more responsibilities. If not, you’ll be moved to a different department, and start from scratch.”

He leans back slightly, his tone softening further. “This isn’t just about KMG, Evan. This is about you figuring out what kind of man you want to be. Iwantyou to succeed—but you have to want it too.”

The elevator dings forFloor Five. My feet don’t move at first, heavy as cinder blocks. The number glows gold against brushed steel, waiting. A second too long, then two. Can’t avoid this forever.

Gilbert Coulter is exactly the kind of man my father would trust with putting me to work—solid, stoic, and utterly unshakeable. His suit is crisp yet understated, his grey hair cropped short and practical. His handshake feels more like a test thana welcome, his sharp black eyes assess me in seconds, lingering for a split second on the Rolex on my wrist.

“Your father has high expectations. Let’s make him proud.”

It’s kinder than I expected. Somehow, that shakes me up more than if he’d barked orders.

And just like that, my first day at KMG begins.

Gilbert immediately hands me off to a Mrs Velazquez, middle-aged, dark-haired, two kids—I assume based on the pictures pinned to her cubicle walls. Her gait is so firm and authoritative that you can practically hear her heels even while she’s walking on carpet.

Mrs Velazquez wastes no time in handing me off to a harried-looking Mr Holcomb. He seems so busy and rushed that he doesn’t even catch my name, calls me “Steven”, and hands me a stack of reports to organise, cross-reference and file.

By the time I reach my cramped, windowless desk, I’ve been metaphorically reminded at least seven times that I’m nothing special.

Around me, the office is one incessant, indifferent drone: phones ringing, keyboards clattering, photocopiers humming. No one glances my way, which is probably for the best.

My tasks are mind-numbingly repetitive: enter data, check for errors, rinse, repeat. Hours stretch and distort. My back aches from hunching over the keyboard. My head throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache.

How the fuck do people do this for a living?

I have no idea. When the day finally ends, all I know is that if there’s a hell, it probably looks a lot like the Operations department at KMG.

Aptly, my way homeis paved with good intentions: eat, change, go for a run, workout, a swim, a protein shake, and a good meal. Keep my body fit and healthy.

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