Samuel left the office and drove toward the Frost family estate.

It wasn't Sunday; there was no mandatory dinner on the calendar. The butler's eyes widened at his arrival, and he immediately signaled the chef. Samuel declined the meal and headed straight for the study.

Harold, the architect of the family's fortune, was hunched over his desk. At nearly eighty, he refused to digitize his life. He sat under the yellow glow of a lamp, peering through reading glasses at documents printed in an oversized font. He looked fragile—a bleak contrast to the titan who had dominated Samuel's childhood.

Samuel lingered at the door before speaking. "Grandpa."

Harold looked up. "You're here. The news said things turned violent on your trip. Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," Samuel said. "I'm here to report on a matter."

Harold removed his glasses, his fingers trembling slightly. "Go on."

Samuel didn't stay by the door. He walked to the center of the room and dropped to his knees.

The air in the study turned to lead. Harold sat like a statue, his only movement the slight vibration of the spectacles in his hand.

Samuel opened his briefcase and began stacking folders on the mahogany desk. "These are my holdings. The stocks, the firms I've established, the real estate, and my private accounts. I am surrendering them. You may transfer them to anyone you choose."

This was the pride of the Frost lineage. The hand-picked heir. The leader who had stabilized the group's most volatile sectors. And he was kneeling like a commoner.

Harold's breath hitched. "What is the meaning of this?"

Samuel bowed his head until his forehead touched the floor. "I am grateful for everything you've given me, but I am not the heir you require. I have failed your expectations. I am returning what I was never meant to keep."

Harold's knuckles went white as he gripped the edge of the desk, his hands looking like gnarled tree roots. "You're walking away? Why?"

Samuel lifted his head, his obsidian eyes locking onto his grandfather's. Each word was a clinical strike.

"Because I cannot marry a woman. I will not be the one to expand this bloodline. Grandfather...I love men."

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Zara was in the garden tending to her roses when the butler's message reached her. She hurried back to the house, but she was too late. Samuel had come and gone like a ghost, leaving without so much as a glass of water.

She found Harold in his study. He was sitting motionless in his chair, a sudden, heavy fatigue weighing on his features. In the span of an hour, he seemed to have aged a decade.

Zara approached the desk and picked up the folders scattered across the mahogany surface. Her hands trembled as she scanned the first few pages.

"He knelt," Harold said, his voice a raspy thread.

Zara froze.

"Samuel is a proud man," Harold continued, staring at nothing. "Aside from his father's wake, I've never seen him bow his head to anyone. Not once in his life."

Harold was a severe man, but he had never raised his children to be subservient. He demanded self-respect and strength. The Frost family was a shark tank of competition, but it was a battle of equals. No one crawled. No one begged. They took what they wanted through sheer capability.

Samuel was the best of them—the apex of that pride.

And yet, he had dropped to his knees. He had traded his dignity and his empire for something he valued more than both.

Harold closed his eyes, exhaling a long, ragged breath. He had spent his life controlling every variable, yet for the first time, he felt utterly powerless.

Zara's eyes widened as she realized what the documents meant. "Why would he surrender all of this? Every stock? Every property?"

Harold opened his eyes, his gaze fractured. "He said he loves men. He said he cannot marry a woman, and therefore, he cannot be the heir to the Frost lineage."

"But it didn't have to come to this!" Zara cried. "We're family. We could have talked. Why the extremes?"

Harold remained silent for a long beat. "Perhaps," he whispered, "we underestimated his resolve."

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Lately, Julian noticed that Samuel was a constant fixture in the Synapse AI war room. He didn't just oversee the listing; he had Asher reroute his entire workflow to the temporary office.

Having the MD on-site acted as a physical stabilizer for the team. With Samuel holding the line, the final hurdles—the whistleblower reports and the regulatory queries—were dismantled one by one.

By the end of September, the Listing Committee submitted the final registration to the SEC. A few days later, the official portal updated:

Synapse AI: IPO Approved.

Success.

The year of brutal all-nighters and jagged nerves finally hit the floor. The project was settled.

That evening, the client hosted a gala. Julian attended with the other analysts—the same pack of management trainees who had started the grind with him. Now that the pressure had evaporated, they were a loud, boisterous mess.

"It's finally over. I thought I was going to die in that war room," one sighed, signaling the waiter for another round.

"I've never worked this hard in my life," another added. "The SATs were a vacation compared to this."

Jordan raised his glass. "To surviving the meat grinder. Cheers!"

Julian clinked glasses with them. For the first time in months, he let himself drink. The warmth of the alcohol began to blur the sharp edges of his exhaustion.

After a few rounds, Jordan leaned in, nudging Julian's shoulder. "Hey, we're going to go toast Big S. You in?"

Julian blinked. "Big S?"

Jordan grinned. "Samuel Frost. MD. Boss man."

Julian's face heated. "...Why that nickname?"

"Because it fits," Jordan whispered, eyes glinting with mischief. "Look at the guy. The posture, the suits, the aura. He's a total Dominant. He's a capital-S."

Julian's water went down the wrong pipe. He erupted into a fit of coughing, his face turning a violent shade of red.

Across the room, Samuel sat at the head table with the senior executives. As if sensing the conversation, he lifted his gaze. He looked severe in a charcoal black suit—surgical, powerful, and entirely unattainable.

Julian's heart hammered against his ribs.

"Take it easy," Jordan laughed, patting Julian's back. "It's just a joke. Don't be so pure."