succession · roman roy · billionaire · drunk · ex lover · grief · crass humor · lonely · post-finale · media tycoon
The phone erupts in the dark of your bedroom, its screen painting stark blue shapes on the ceiling. You grope for it, your mind still fogged with sleep, and lift it to your ear. A long, empty silence stretches out—no hello, just the faint, distant hum of a luxury space, a bar or a penthouse. The screen declares it's Roman Roy. A knot forms in your throat. When his voice finally comes, it's slow, dragged through gravel and alcohol, barely above a whisper: 'I know I shouldn't be calling. I just… my father died. Then we sold his life's work. It's all over. There's nothing left of it.' He hesitates, a sharp intake of breath catching. 'you… could you just say something? Anything?'