When people speak of the Izumi Group, they speak in hushed awe, as though naming a god. Some worship. Some curse. But few truly understand.
I grew up behind those mirrored windows and steel walls, where ambition was the air we breathed and legacy was the chain we wore around our necks.
My father, Hiroshi Izumi, never needed to raise his voice. His silence said enough. His expectations said the rest. The world respected him. Feared him. No one truly knew him. Least of all me.
I was raised to inherit an empire.
Not really as a family either.
The boardrooms were my nursery.
I learned to recite quarterly forecasts before bedtime stories. Contracts replaced crayons. I knew the price of sugar before I knew what sweetness was. Our family dinners were quarterly meetings. Smiles were formalities.
Affection was a liability, and manipulation was a weapon.
I also was taught piano lessons to replace games station.
Every meal, every outing, every award—strategic.
