Sign the papers, sweetheart, or I’ll make sure everyone in this town knows what

I opened the leather folder slowly. Inside was a document transferring David’s forty-nine percent stake in Ashford Holdings—the family shipping company David had personally rebuilt from bankruptcy—back to Douglas for one dollar. “You have until dessert,” Douglas said, tapping his Rolex. “After that, I start making calls. Country club. Charity board. That little foundation you love so much.” I set the folder down and finally looked up at him. “Douglas,” I said quietly, “David knew you’d do this. He knew the second the cancer diagnosis came in.” I reached into my purse and placed a second envelope on the table. Douglas’s smile flickered. Inside was a certified letter from David’s attorney at Skadden, dated six months earlier. David hadn’t owned forty-nine percent of Ashford Holdings when he died. He’d owned seventy-three percent. He’d quietly bought out Douglas’s cousins, the silent partners Douglas had bullied for two decades, and moved every share into an irrevocable trust. Sole trustee: me. Douglas’s bourbon glass stopped mid-swirl. “That’s not possible.” “It’s already filed,” I said. “As of nine a.m. Monday, I’m the majority owner of the company your father started. And the board meeting you scheduled to vote me out? I moved it up. It happened this morning.” I slid a third document across the table. His termination letter. Effective immediately. Severance: one dollar—the same price he’d offered me. Douglas’s face went the color of the tablecloth. “You wouldn’t dare humiliate me in front of—” “I already did,” I said gently. “The press release went out at six.” His phone, face-down beside his plate, began buzzing. Then buzzing again. Then would not stop. I stood, smoothed my dress, and dropped two twenties on the table for my sparkling water. “Enjoy dessert, Douglas. The tiramisu here is lovely.” I walked past the maître d’, out into the cool September air, and for the first time in eleven days, I let myself smile.