You’re not really a Whitmore, sweetie. You’re just the charity case my brother dragged

I didn’t run. I walked down those stairs slowly, heels clicking against marble, while three hundred faces turned to watch. Cordelia’s smirk faltered when I stopped directly in front of the podium where Uncle Richard was about to announce himself as CEO. ‘Actually, Aunt Cordelia,’ I said, my voice steady, ‘since you brought up family, I think everyone should hear what’s in this folder.’ Richard’s face went pale. He lunged for the microphone, but I was already speaking. ‘Two weeks before my father died, he updated his will. He left controlling shares of Whitmore Holdings—fifty-one percent—to me. Not to Richard. Not to Cordelia. To the daughter he chose, raised, and loved.’ Gasps rippled through the ballroom. Cordelia’s champagne flute slipped from her fingers and shattered. ‘But that’s not all.’ I opened the folder. ‘These are the forensic accounting records I commissioned six months ago. Uncle Richard has been siphoning four point two million dollars from the Whitmore Children’s Foundation—the very charity this gala supports. The same foundation that funded the orphanage where my father found me.’ The room went dead silent. Richard stammered something about misunderstandings. I turned to the board members in the front row, every one of them holding a copy of the report I’d had couriered to their seats an hour earlier. ‘As majority shareholder, effective tonight, I’m appointing a new CEO. Me. And as for you, Aunt Cordelia—’ I picked up her fallen flute and set it gently on the podium ‘—the charity case just bought the charity. You might want to start being nicer to the help. I hear we’re hiring.’ She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. My father’s portrait hung above the fireplace, and I swear, for just a second, he smiled.