Sign the papers, Eleanor, or I swear I’ll have you escorted out of this

“Brandon, sweetheart,” I said, sliding the contract back untouched, “before you escort anyone anywhere, you might want to read section nine of your father’s trust.” His smirk twitched. The lawyer beside him, the slick one Brandon had hired behind my back, suddenly found his tie very interesting. I opened the leather folder I’d brought with me. Inside was a single document, notarized the morning before Richard’s funeral. “Your father restructured the company eleven days before he passed,” I said. “Voting shares were transferred into a living trust. I’m the sole trustee until 2041.” Brandon laughed, but it cracked halfway. “That’s not possible. I have the share certificates.” “You have paper,” I said gently. “I have authority.” I turned to the board. “Effective this moment, Brandon Whitfield is removed as acting CEO for breach of fiduciary duty. I have recordings of the three vendor kickbacks he accepted in March, the harassment complaint he buried in April, and the wire transfer he made last Tuesday to an offshore account in his fiancée’s name.” The room went so quiet I could hear the heater click on. Brandon stood up so fast his chair hit the wall. “You senile old—” “Careful,” I said. “Security is already in the hallway. Your father loved you, Brandon. He just didn’t trust you. There’s a difference, and I’m sorry it took you this long to learn it.” Two officers stepped in. Brandon’s lawyer was already packing his briefcase, suddenly remembering he had another client. As they walked Brandon past me, he hissed, “He would never have done this to me.” I touched the pearl at my throat, the one Richard gave me the night he signed those papers. “He did it FOR you, honey. So one day you might actually earn the name. Now go home. Call your mother. And read the trust this time.” The door closed. I turned to the board and opened my notebook. “Now,” I said, “let’s talk about the people Brandon fired. I’d like them back by Monday.”