The family attorney, Mr. Calloway, cleared his throat and slid a thin envelope across the table. Preston snatched it before I could blink, tearing it open with the same entitled grin he’d worn since we were kids. His eyes scanned the page. The grin slipped. Then it died. “This… this is wrong,” he stammered. “This says the controlling shares go to Eleanor.” Mr. Calloway folded his hands. “Your father amended the will fourteen months ago, Mr. Whitaker. He was of sound mind. Two physicians signed off. Eleanor receives ninety-one percent of Whitaker Textiles. You receive the Miami condo — and the outstanding mortgage attached to it.” Preston’s face went the color of old milk. “She manipulated him! She was alone with him for years!” I finally set my teacup down. My voice was quiet, the way Dad’s used to get right before he made a decision no one could undo. “I wasn’t alone with him, Preston. You just weren’t there.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a worn leather notebook — Dad’s handwriting on every page. Production notes. Payroll decisions. Letters he dictated to me from his hospital bed. And tucked inside the back cover, a single sheet addressed to Preston. Mr. Calloway read it aloud at my nod. “Son, I gave you twelve years to show up. You sent flowers once. Eleanor showed up every morning. The company belongs to the one who built it with me. Be a man about it.” Preston stood so fast his chair tipped backward. He looked at me like he was waiting for the apology he’d always gotten growing up. I didn’t give it. Instead I slid a second document toward him — a job offer. Junior sales associate. Charleston branch. Reports directly to me. “Dad’s last request,” I said softly. “He wanted you to learn. Take it or leave it, Preston. But this time, you show up on time.”
