Chapter 1

Christina

I tap my pen against my leather desk pad as my eyes scan the proposal for the fourth time, my gaze moving but my brain taking some time to catch up. The numbers grow more promising with each review—Pinnacle Enterprises' new eco-friendly resort line could become our most lucrative venture yet. Through the windows of my corner office at Williams Global Innovation headquarters, Manhattan's skyline creates the perfect backdrop for ambition.

"Focus, Christina," I mutter to myself, adjusting the platinum desk nameplate that reads 'Christina Williams, VP of Strategy Development.' Dad insisted on the title, though I fought for something less nepotistic-sounding.

My office reflects the careful balance I've tried to strike between my father's corporate aesthetic and my own personality. The space is dominated by clean lines and modern furnishings—a glass desk that looks like it's floating on air, ergonomic chair in buttery soft leather, and minimalist shelving housing business awards and family photos in equal measure. My Harvard MBA diploma hangs beside a vibrant abstract painting I purchased from a street artist in SoHo—my small rebellion against Dad's preference for traditional oil landscapes.

The wall opposite my desk features an interactive smart board displaying our current market position, competitor analysis, and projected growth charts. My tablet chimes with another notification, and I swipe it open to find three more emails from the development team waiting for responses.

I take a sip from my cat mug—a cute gift from my old college roommate—and return to the proposal. The resort concept maximizes sustainability while promising luxury experiences, exactly the direction I've been pushing our company toward. If executed properly, Williams Global Innovation could establish itself as a leader in eco-luxury hospitality.

"This could actually work," I whisper to myself, scrolling through the detailed renderings. The architect has captured my vision perfectly—solar panels integrated seamlessly into the design, living walls that provide natural cooling, and infinity pools powered by rainwater collection systems. Sophisticated without being ostentatious. Contemporary but timeless.

My desk phone lights up. Dad. Again. I let it go to voicemail for the third time today.

I roll my shoulders back, attempting to release the tension that inevitably builds whenever I think about our last conversation. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm developing sustainable properties while my relationship with my father grows increasingly unsustainable. I glance at the family photo on my desk—Mom, Dad, and me at my graduation. Happier times, before he decided my marriage prospects were as important as my business acumen.

My custom notification tone sounds—a text from my executive assistant.

"Your father is heading up from the 40th floor. ETA 3 minutes."

I exhale sharply. Of course he is. When voicemails don't work, physical presence is his next tactic.

I straighten the already perfect stack of proposal documents and adjust my blazer. The expansive office that normally feels like my domain suddenly seems like contested territory. Dad funded it, designed it, and granted it to me—a golden cage disguised as opportunity.

The resort proposal represents more than just a business venture for me. It's my attempt to carve out something uniquely mine within the Williams empire. Something I conceptualized, developed, and will hopefully execute without my father's micromanagement. Each sustainable feature and innovative design element reflects my vision for the company's future, not his.

My eyes drift to the small cactus on my desk—the only plant that survives my hectic schedule. Sometimes I feel like that cactus: thriving in harsh conditions through sheer determination, growing spines as necessary protection.

The phone rings again, and I check the caller ID. Dad's executive assistant this time—his proxy when direct communication fails.

"Christina Williams," I answer, my voice professional and controlled.

"Your father would like to see you in the main conference room in fifteen minutes."

"I'll be there," I say, hanging up before his assistant can add anything else.

My fingers drum against the glass desk as I gaze out at the Manhattan skyline. Gleaming skyscrapers stretch toward the clouds—each one a monument to someone's ambition. Mine is right here, captured in the renderings and spreadsheets scattered across my workspace.

The conference room summons is no surprise. Dad's been playing this game for weeks now—scheduling "urgent" meetings that turn into lectures about my future. Not the professional future he pretends to care about, but my personal one. The nerve of him, using business meetings as a smokescreen for meddling in my love life.

I push away from my desk, pacing the length of my office. The premium carpet absorbs the sound of my heels, a small mercy given my current mood. These walls—this entire floor—everything bears his fingerprints. Williams Global Innovation, with its gleaming facade and prestigious address, was his creation. But that doesn't give him ownership of my life.

"This stops today," I mutter, grabbing my tablet and the resort proposal.

Last week's "emergency board discussion" devolved into Dad introducing me to the son of one of his golf buddies—a hedge fund manager with all the personality of dry toast. The week before that, it was the heir to a hotel chain that would "complement our holdings beautifully," as if I were just another asset to be merged.

My mother calls it concern. "He wants security for you," she explained during our last Sunday brunch. As if I—with my Harvard MBA and executive position—need a man to secure my future.

I check my reflection in the office window, adjusting my blazer. The woman staring back at me has my face but sometimes feels like a stranger—polished, professional, playing by rules I never agreed to. Behind this corporate mask, a rebellion brews.

The resort project is my declaration of independence. Sustainable luxury with minimal environmental impact—Dad practically scoffed when I first pitched it. "Treehugger nonsense," he called it. Now the projections show it could become our most profitable division within three years.

My assistant appears at the door. "Your father asked me to escort you."

"I know the way to the conference room, Melissa."

"He specifically mentioned ensuring you arrive on time."

Translation: He doesn't trust me to show up.

I gather my materials, feeling the weight of the proposal in my hands. It represents everything I want for my future at Williams Global—innovation, responsibility, my vision coming to life.

The elevator ride to the executive floor stretches my nerves thin. I mentally rehearse my boundaries: No more blind business dinner setups. No more "coincidental" introductions. No more thinly veiled ultimatums about the importance of "securing the Williams legacy."

Dad doesn't understand I'm already securing it—just not in the way he imagined. Each sustainability initiative I champion, each innovative property I develop adds value that will outlast any marriage certificate.

The doors open to the executive floor with its mahogany paneling and oil paintings of stern-faced Williams patriarchs. My grandfather stares down at me from his portrait, his expression a mirror of Dad's disapproval.

"I'm blazing my own trail," I whisper to the painting as I pass.

The conference room doors loom ahead, and I pause, taking a steadying breath. Through the glass walls, I can see Dad standing at the head of the table, surrounded by men in suits I don't recognize. His power move—bring in strangers so I won't cause a scene.

He thinks he's playing chess. What he doesn't realize is that I've stopped being a pawn.

I straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of my surname but refusing to be crushed by it. I'm Christina Williams—not just Frankie's daughter, not a corporate princess waiting to be married off to the most advantageous suitor.

I'm the woman who will transform Williams Global Innovation, with or without his blessing.

My fingers tighten around the tablet holding eighteen months of research, projections, and plans—my vision for the company's future. Dad can arrange all the marriage-minded meetings he wants. I'll keep showing up with business proposals instead of wedding ones.

The receptionist nods as I approach. "They're waiting for you, Ms. Williams."

I pause, hand on the door handle. "Then they won't have to wait much longer."