Rain hammered the windshield as William's car cut through the empty streets. He stared past the water streaks at shuttered shops and the few people brave enough to face the storm. The gray morning matched his mood perfectly, each droplet that cascaded down the glass seeming to carry the weight of his crumbling plans.
The phone call had changed everything. At eighteen, fresh out of Harvard with his MBA, he'd been building his own automotive company, Zephyr Motorworks—his escape from the family business and its stifling practices. Four years of carefully laid plans, revolutionary designs, and painstaking development had been leading toward something extraordinary. Now here he was, racing back home, probably on his way to inherit the same business he'd fought so hard to delay.
His hands gripped the steering wheel of the custom coupe—his masterpiece. The car was born from a bet between him and his father, a challenge that had resulted in a collaboration between Zephyr and Harrow Automobiles. Richard Harrow had wagered that his son's ideas couldn't be translated into reality with their current manufacturing capabilities. William had accepted the challenge, determined to prove that innovation could flourish even within the constraints of traditional production methods.
The result was a machine whose silhouette was both elegant and beautiful. It had curves which many would have called impossible to manufacture. It's lights different from anything in the market. For someone from future, they might mistake it for an early prototype of a 2005 Porsche Boxster, though Porsche wouldn't reveal that design philosophy for years to come. The interior featured gauges and controls that seemed to belong in an aircraft cockpit like those of SAAB, but knobs and handles reminiscent of what Pagani would later make famous. Underlying all this were innovations years ahead of the market, with technologies that hadn't even been invented yet. While the industry churned out conservative boxes designed by committees, William had built something that belonged on a racetrack. This car was his rebellion, and his answer to his family who had accused him of betraying the family legacy. And he'd wanted to continue working on similar masterpieces, each one pushing the boundaries further than the last. But man proposes, and God disposes.
Although the irony of all this wasn't lost on him. The very car that represented his independence from the family business had been built using Harrow resources, creating a bond he couldn't easily sever. Every mile he drove in it reminded him that his revolutionary vision was still tethered to the legacy he'd tried to escape.
A few minutes later, the hospital gates appeared through the rain. It was an imposing stone edifice, its grand entrance crowned by an arch bearing the name in carved limestone letters: Harrow Hospital - Founded in the Year of Our Lord 1894 by Sir Marcus Harrow,The Third, his great-great-grandfather. The old man had built it back when rich industrialists still believed in giving back to their communities, though William suspected it had been as much about cementing the family name in local history as genuine philanthropy. The city owned it now, but the Harrow name remained, like a monument to what his family used to be. Personally, knowing his great-grandfather's character from family stories, this had probably been a vanity project as much as a charitable endeavour.
The hospital's facade told the story of American industrial aristocracy—Gothic Revival architecture that spoke of old money and older values. Gargoyles perched at the corners of the building, their stone faces weathered by decades of New England winters. The landscaping, even in this storm, showed the careful attention that came with endowments and dedicated groundskeeping staff. This was more than a hospital; it was a testament to the Harrow family's once-unshakeable position in society.
Passing through the wrought iron gates, he brought the car to rest in front of the covered portico. The engine's rumble died away, leaving only the sound of rain drumming against the roof. He killed the ignition and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, breathing in the leather scent of the interior he'd personally designed. His instinct was screaming that these would probably be the last quiet moments he'd get for some time.
The weight of what lay ahead pressed down on him. Inside that building, his father lay unconscious, and with him, the future of everything William had worked to avoid. The board of directors would be circling like vultures, ready to thrust responsibility onto the heir they'd always expected would eventually return to the fold. His carefully constructed independence was about to crumble like sand through his fingers.
The door opened before he could reach for the handle. George appeared with an umbrella, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been doing this for decades. George Butler, despite being well over forty, moved with an energy that would put athletes to shame. His white hair was combed back perfectly with not even a strand out of place, despite the storm. A pair of golden spectacles framed his strict, angular face, giving him the appearance of a scholarly disciplinarian. He and his family had been the Harrow family butlers for as far as anyone could remember. They'd served the family when the Harrows first set foot on American soil and had been doing so for almost two centuries. Knowing the Butler family's dedication, they would keep doing so for generations to come.
George's presence was both comforting and intimidating. He'd been there for William's first steps, his graduation from MIT, Harvard, and every major moment in between. The man knew family secrets that went back generations, understood the intricacies of Harrow business dealings, and possessed an almost supernatural ability to anticipate needs before they were voiced. His loyalty was absolute, but so were his expectations of the family he served.
"Master William," George said, his voice warm but heavy with the weight of bad news. The formal address felt strange after years of casual interaction, but George always reverted to protocol during crises.
"George." William managed a weak smile as he climbed out, immediately grateful for the umbrella's protection. "How is he?"
They walked up the stone steps together, water rushing around their feet in small torrents. The storm showed no signs of abating, and William could hear thunder rumbling in the distance, promising an even worse deluge to come.
"The surgery went well, sir. He's stable, but he's in a coma. The doctors can't say when he might wake up." George's voice carried the measured tone he used when delivering difficult news—factual, but not without compassion. "Dr. Richardson, the chief of surgery, believes the next seventy-two hours will be critical in determining his long-term prognosis."
William let out a long breath, watching it mist in the cold air. Given how bad the accident had been—a head-on collision with a delivery truck that had run a red light—stable was something to be grateful for. The initial phone call had prepared him for the worst.
Their footsteps echoed off the polished marble floors as they headed toward the grand staircase. The hospital's interior reflected its origins as a philanthropic gesture from America's Gilded Age. High ceilings, ornate mouldings, and stained glass windows created an atmosphere more suited to a cathedral than a medical facility. Doctors and nurses nodded respectfully as they passed, their faces mixing professional sympathy with genuine concern. Many of them had worked here long enough to remember when William was a child, visiting during family charity events or board meetings. He nodded back automatically, hearing the same whispered condolences over and over—words that blended together into a murmur of sympathy and expectation.
"What about Mother?" he asked as they began climbing the stairs. The bronze banister was worn smooth by countless hands over the decades.
"She arrived last night and hasn't left his bedside since." George matched his pace perfectly; a skill developed over years of accompanying family members through various crises. "She was going to stay at the estate initially, but when she realized the gravity of the situation, she made the journey immediately. I believe she's barely eaten since arriving."
William pictured the old estate with its sprawling grounds, ancient oak trees, and meandering streams—his mother's refuge from the world. Eleanor Harrow had always been happiest there, away from society's demands and the pressures that came with the family name. The estate represented peace to her, a place where she could tend her gardens and read without interruption. Leaving it for the sterile environment of a hospital spoke volumes about her fear for her husband's life.
"And Erica?"
"Miss Erica took the early train from New York this morning. She arrived approximately two hours ago and went straight to your father's room." George's tone softened slightly when speaking of William's younger sister. Despite his formal demeanor, the butler had always had a particular fondness for Erica's spirited nature.
His throat tightened at the thought of his sister rushing back from her new life in New York. Erica was only nineteen, just starting at Parsons School of Design with dreams of revolutionizing fashion the way William hoped to revolutionize automobiles. She was full of wild ideas that even he couldn't keep up with, despite knowing more about the future than anyone else alive. Her sketches were weird and outlandish, although she would rather call them Avant-garde. Personally, William felt that she would have fit very well into the 2024-2025 fashion culture.
Climbing the stairs, the second-floor corridor stretched ahead of them into the private wing reserved for the Harrow family. Here, the institutional sterility gave way to Persian carpets, mahogany wainscoting, and fresh flower arrangements replaced daily by hospital staff. Crystal sconces provided warm lighting that softened the clinical atmosphere, while oil paintings of pastoral scenes created an almost residential feeling. The air carried faint scents of lavender and beeswax—a deliberate attempt to create something more like a well-appointed home than a medical facility. William's heart pounded harder with each step through this softened luxury that reflected the family's public presence and private expectations.
This wing represented everything the Harrow name had once meant in their community—influence, philanthropy, and the assumption that wealth came with responsibility. The carpet beneath his feet had probably cost more than most people's annual salaries, yet it was just one small detail in a display of refined affluence that the family took for granted.
At the far end of the corridor, Erica stood outside their father's room, thin and hunched over with her arms crossed defensively. Her usually immaculate dark hair was messy from traveling, and her eyes showed the telltale signs of tears both shed and held back. She wore a simple black dress that emphasized her youth and vulnerability. When she saw him approaching, her blue eyes filled with relief and something that looked like desperate hope.
"Oh, Will," she whispered, and he heard every fear she couldn't voice in those two simple words.
He crossed to her in three quick strides and pulled her into a protective embrace. She clung to him like she needed to feel his physical presence to believe they were both still here, still whole, still capable of facing whatever came next. Her small frame shook slightly against his chest, betraying the composure she was trying to maintain.
"I've missed you terribly," he said, meaning every word. "I just wish our reunion weren't under these circumstances."
She burrowed deeper into his chest without speaking, and he could feel her fighting back another wave of tears. Erica had always been the emotional heart of their small family, the one who felt everything more deeply than the rest of them. Her sensitivity was both a gift and a burden, allowing her to create beautiful things while making her vulnerable to life's cruelties.
"Where's Mother?" he asked gently, rubbing her back the way he had when they were children, and she'd had nightmares.
Erica gestured toward the door without lifting her head from his chest. Through the narrow gap, William could see his mother sitting beside the hospital bed, her lips moving in what appeared to be quiet conversation with his unconscious father. Eleanor Harrow's posture remained perfect even in her vigil, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant chignon that showed her aristocratic profile. She wore a navy-blue dress that managed to look both appropriate for the hospital setting and unmistakably expensive.
Even in crisis, his mother maintained the bearing that had made her a formidable presence in social circles for decades. She'd been raised to believe that how one conducted oneself in public—and the hospital's private wing was still public in her view—reflected not just on the individual but on the entire family legacy.
"Mother," William called softly as he entered the room, his voice carrying across the hushed space with the tenderness he reserved for family moments.
Eleanor turned at the sound of her son's voice, and for a moment her carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing the raw relief and anguish she'd been concealing behind her public mask. She rose from her chair with fluid grace, crossing the room to embrace William with desperate intensity that spoke volumes about the fear she'd been harboring throughout the long hours of uncertainty.
"My dearest boy," she whispered against his shoulder, her voice trembling with emotion she'd been holding in check. "I'm so grateful you've returned safely. The roads were treacherous with this storm, and I was terrified something might happen to you as well."
"I'm here now, Mother," William replied, holding her close and drawing strength from her familiar presence—the scent of her perfume, the familiar feel of her hand patting his back, the way she still treated him like her little boy despite his twenty-two years. "Have you managed to get any rest at all?"
She stepped back slightly but kept her hands on his shoulders, studying his face with the keen perception that only a mother possesses. Her eyes searched for signs of exhaustion, stress, or injury with the thoroughness of someone who'd spent years watching over her children's wellbeing.
"I've managed adequately, though I confess the waiting has been rather trying," she admitted, her voice regaining some of its usual controlled cadence. "But your father looks peaceful, despite everything. The doctors assure us that his vital signs remain strong, and they're cautiously optimistic about his eventual recovery."
Erica joined them, slipping her hand into William's with the unconscious gesture of a younger sister seeking comfort from her big brother. She didn't speak, but he felt the same helpless ache reflected in her touch that he carried in his own chest.
Together, the three family members approached the hospital bed where Richard Harrow lay in peaceful repose. Surrounded by the quiet humming and beeping of medical equipment, he looked smaller somehow, diminished by the apparatus that monitored his every breath and heartbeat. Yet his face retained the strong jawline and distinguished bearing that had made him a commanding presence in both business and social circles. He looked like the very definition of a successful CEO from all the Chinese and Korean novels William had read in his previous life, complete with silver hair and the kind of face that inspired confidence in boardrooms.
But appearances were deceiving. Richard Harrow had never been particularly good at the business side of running a company. He was an inventor and engineer at heart, happiest on the shop floor tinkering with whatever mechanical puzzle had caught his interest that day. His real passion lay in understanding how things worked, in pushing the boundaries of what was possible with current technology. The administrative and strategic aspects of running Harrow Automobiles had always been handled by capable lieutenants while Richard focused on innovation and development.
This irony wasn't lost on William, who shared his father's love of engineering but possessed the strategic mind that Richard lacked. It was one of the reasons William had started his own company rather than joining the family business immediately—he'd wanted to prove he could succeed on his own merits, without the safety net of inherited position.
"The physicians believe that speaking to him might be beneficial," Eleanor observed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "They suggest that familiar voices may help to guide him back to consciousness, though they cannot offer any guarantees about the timeline for such recovery."
William looked at his mother, noting how her eyes remained fixed on her husband's peaceful face with unwavering devotion. She didn't just look sad—she looked utterly exhausted, like some vital part of her had dimmed to barely glowing embers. He knew that his parents loved each other with a depth that was rare in their social circle, where marriages were often more about combining fortunes than genuine affection. But this moment made their connection even more prominent, and he couldn't bear to see his strong, composed mother reduced to this vulnerable state. He wanted to promise her something, anything that might restore hope to her eyes, but the words simply wouldn't come.
The room fell into contemplative silence, broken only by the steady ticking of an antique clock on the mantelpiece and the distant sounds of hospital activity filtering through the corridors. Each family member seemed lost in their own thoughts and memories, drawing what comfort they could from their shared presence during this period of uncertainty. The weight of unspoken fears hung heavy in the air—questions about recovery, about the future, about what would happen to all their carefully laid plans if the worst occurred.
George appeared in the doorway with his characteristic discretion, but his expression carried an additional weight that hadn't been present during their earlier conversation. His usual composed demeanor showed cracks of genuine concern, and William could tell that whatever news he brought would complicate an already difficult situation.
"I do apologize for interrupting this private moment, young master," George began, his voice carrying the formal tone he employed when addressing matters of serious import. "But there is a matter that requires your immediate attention, I'm afraid."
William turned, surprised by the unusual gravity in George's tone. In all the years he'd known the butler, he'd rarely seen him look so troubled by business concerns.
"What is it, George?"
"The company, sir. Word of your father's accident has already spread throughout the organization. By now, every employee will have heard some version of events. The board of directors has convened an emergency session this afternoon to discuss the company's interim leadership structure." George paused, clearly understanding the implications of what he was about to say. "I realize this request conflicts with your chosen path and your plans for Zephyr Motorworks, but the circumstances leave us with precious few alternatives."
William swallowed hard, "Interim leadership."
"Yes, sir. They will expect you to attend the meeting and, more significantly, to assume your father's position, at least until such time as he is able to resume his duties." George's expression conveyed both sympathy and the inexorable weight of family obligation. "The board members are understandably concerned about market confidence and operational continuity during this uncertain period."
Erica's hand tightened almost painfully in his, her fingernails digging into his palm.
Eleanor placed a gentle hand on William's other arm, her touch conveying both support and understanding of the enormous burden that was about to fall upon her son's shoulders. "Your father has always spoken of this possibility, though he had hoped you might eventually choose to return to the family business of your own accord, in your own time. He has always respected your decision to establish Zephyr Motorworks, even if he never fully understood the source of your unusual insights into future automotive developments. He was proud of you and what you were attempting…"
The irony of the situation wasn't lost on William. At eighteen, he had deliberately chosen his own path, establishing Zephyr Motorworks with dreams of revolutionizing the industry using knowledge that seemed to come from nowhere—insights into technologies and design philosophies that wouldn't exist for decades. He hadn't been planning to join the family business so soon, if ever. Maybe work with them eventually, guide them toward better practices, but leading them had never been part of his near-term plans. He'd wanted to create something entirely new first, something that would eventually eclipse not only Harrow Automobiles but even established giants like Ford Motor Company, before ever considering taking over the reins of the family legacy.
Now circumstances were forcing his hand, demanding that he set aside his revolutionary dreams and carefully laid plans to serve the very legacy he'd been trying to surpass. The timing couldn't have been worse—Zephyr Motorworks was on the verge of several breakthrough developments that could change the entire industry.
He pressed his palm against his temple, already feeling the weight of the board's questions waiting for him like a gauntlet he'd have to run. They'd want to know about quarterly projections, production quotas, whether they'd continue with the same tired models that barely turned a profit in an increasingly competitive market. They would probably also hound him regarding the innovative designs and patents he had secured under the Zephyr name, seeing them as assets that should belong to the family company rather than his independent venture.
The politics alone would be exhausting. Some board members had always resented his independence, viewing it as a rejection of family values and responsibilities. Others would see his forced return as an opportunity to control him, to shape him into the kind of leader they wanted rather than the innovator he'd proven himself to be.
"Fine," William said finally, his voice carrying a new note of authority that surprised even him. The word came out harder than he'd intended, betraying his frustration with the situation. "George, postpone the meeting until tomorrow morning. I need time to prepare properly, and I won't walk into that boardroom unprepared. Tell the management team that all operations will continue without disruption—we can't afford to show any weakness to our competitors or suppliers. But make it absolutely clear that this is a temporary arrangement, lasting only until Father recovers or until we can implement a more permanent solution."
"Of course, young master," George replied with evident approval, clearly relieved that William was taking charge rather than trying to avoid his responsibilities. "I shall also prepare comprehensive briefing documents on all current projects and initiatives that require your attention. Your father's personal secretary, Miss Patterson, has been maintaining detailed records of all pending matters, contract negotiations, and strategic decisions that were in progress at the time of the accident.'
"George…ask them to also share the accounting books. I want all the ledgers, the cashflow statement, everything."
George looked at him with slight scrutiny before nodding.
No one knew this particular night would be the spark that would change not just the automobile world, but the global economy as whole.