Chapter 162 Drowning in Regret
Carson sat alone in his office, the blinds half-closed, a bottle of whiskey beside him. The room smelled of alcohol and stale air.
Papers were scattered across the desk, some stained with drops of amber liquid. His phone buzzed again, but he didn’t pick it up.
He knew who it was—his mother, or maybe the company lawyer. He didn’t want to hear another lecture.
He poured himself another glass, his hand slightly shaking. The first sip burned down his throat, but he didn’t care. It dulled the noise in his head—the voices, the news, the blame.
The McCoy family’s downfall was everywhere now. The newspapers called it “The Fall of the Golden Empire.”
The TV anchors spoke his name like it was a curse. His business partners avoided his calls. His friends stopped replying to his messages.
The phone buzzed again. This time, it was a video call from Victoria. He sighed and pressed the answer button. Her face appeared, sharp and furious.
“Carson, where are you?” she demanded.
“In my office,” he said, his words slow and heavy.
“You missed another board meeting!” she shouted. “Do you even realize how bad things are?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Mother, I can’t fix it overnight,” he said.
“You’re not even trying!” she snapped. “You’re drinking yourself to death while the company burns!”
Carson looked away, his eyes dull. “Maybe it deserves to burn,” he muttered.
Victoria’s eyes widened. “What did you say?” she asked.
He turned back to her. “You heard me,” he said quietly. “Maybe all of this—your empire, your perfect image—deserves to fall apart.”
She slammed her palm on her desk. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that! Everything you have came from me!”
He laughed bitterly. “And look where it got me,” he said. “A drunk failure with no one left to call.”
Victoria’s voice softened, though anger still laced it. “Carson, you need to pull yourself together. If you don’t, we’ll lose everything.”
He took another drink. “We already have,” he said.
“Stop this nonsense!” she said sharply. “You’re going to the company tomorrow. You’re going to face the board and show them you still have control.”
He smiled faintly. “Control?” he repeated. “I lost that a long time ago.”
Victoria’s voice broke. “Carson, please,” she said quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
But he ended the call without replying.
The silence that followed was thick. He stared at the empty glass in his hand, then refilled it. The world outside the window looked blurred through the rain.
Hours later, the office door opened. His assistant, Mark, stepped in hesitantly. “Sir,” he said softly. “You have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
Carson didn’t move. “Cancel it,” he said.
Mark shifted uneasily. “Sir, it’s with the board—”
“Cancel it,” Carson repeated, his voice cold.
Mark looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned and left, closing the door quietly.
Carson leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered back to the day of the wedding—the crowd, the gasps, Bridget’s pale face.
He could still hear her crying when he walked away. For a moment, he had thought he was doing the right thing. But now, all he saw was the chaos he had unleashed.
He picked up his phone again, scrolling through his messages. Dozens of unread ones from reporters, business associates, and family members. But one message stood out—it was from Bridget. Sent days ago.
It read: “I hope one day you realize what you destroyed. Not just me. Yourself.”
Carson stared at it for a long time, his throat tightening. Then he threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with a crack.
He poured another drink. His reflection in the glass bottle looked unfamiliar—his eyes hollow, his face tired. He had aged years in weeks.
Later that evening, Victoria came to the mansion. She found him in the lounge, slumped on the couch with a half-empty bottle beside him.
“Carson,” she said quietly.
He looked up slowly. “Mother,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“You smell like a bar,” she said.
He laughed weakly. “Maybe I should buy one,” he said.
“This isn’t funny,” she said. “You’re destroying yourself.”
“I already told you,” he said, leaning back. “It’s already destroyed.”
Victoria’s eyes glistened with tears. “I built all of this for you,” she said. “Everything. Every deal, every sacrifice—it was for you.”
He looked at her, his gaze tired. “You built it for control,” he said softly. “Not for me.”
She froze, her lips parting. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “You never cared what I wanted. You just wanted the McCoy name to shine.”
Victoria’s shoulders dropped. “I wanted you to be strong,” she whispered.
“I wanted to be happy,” he said quietly.
The silence between them grew heavy. The ticking clock on the wall filled the room.
Finally, Victoria sat down across from him. “You still can be,” she said. “But not like this. Not if you keep drinking and hiding.”
Carson looked at the glass in his hand. “I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted.
“Then let me help you,” she said gently.
He shook his head. “You can’t fix this. Not this time.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re my son,” she said. “I can’t just watch you destroy yourself.”
He smiled sadly. “You already are,” he said.
Victoria pressed a hand to her mouth, holding back a sob.
Carson stood unsteadily. “I need some air,” he said, and walked out into the garden. The night was cold, the grass wet beneath his shoes. He looked up at the dark sky, his breath visible in the air.
He thought about everything he had lost—his reputation, his future, his peace. Every decision he had made seemed to echo back at him now, mocking him.
Behind him, the light from the house spilled across the lawn. He could see his mother’s shadow standing in the doorway, watching him. But he couldn’t face her anymore.
He walked farther into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps fading.
Inside, Victoria returned to the couch, her hands shaking. She looked at the empty bottle on the table and whispered, “Please, Carson… don’t let this be the end.”
But upstairs, the phone rang again—another missed call, another headline, another sign that the world they had built was collapsing piece by piece.
And in that quiet, broken mansion, both mother and son sat in separate rooms, drowning—one in regret, and the other in fear that it was already too late.