Sweetheart, why don’t you go refill the coffee like a good little assistant before

I didn’t move toward the coffee. I walked to the projector instead. ‘Actually, Marcus, since you’re so eager to talk real numbers, let’s talk.’ I clicked the remote. The screen lit up with the Whitfield Holdings ownership structure. ‘As of 9 a.m. this morning, the Elena Whitfield Trust—that’s me—holds 51.3% of voting shares. Daniel left me his stake. The board approved the transfer last Tuesday. You’d know that, Marcus, if you’d answered any of the seventeen emails legal sent you.’ His smirk cracked. I clicked again. Bank statements. ‘This is the $2.4 million in ‘consulting fees’ you paid yourself from the Aspen subsidiary over the last three years. The subsidiary you were never authorized to open.’ Click. Forged signatures—his hand mimicking Daniel’s. The general counsel, Patricia, slid a folder across the table to the board chair. ‘We’ve already notified the SEC,’ she said quietly. Marcus stood up so fast his chair rolled into the wall. ‘Elena, wait—this is family business, we can—’ ‘Family?’ I finally walked toward him, slow, heels echoing. ‘You told my daughter at Daniel’s funeral that she’d never inherit a dime because her mother was a glorified secretary. She’s eight, Marcus. She cried for a week.’ I set the coffee carafe down in front of him with a soft clink. ‘Two sugars, right? You’re going to need the energy. Security is waiting in the lobby to escort you to your deposition.’ The board chair cleared his throat. ‘Motion to remove Marcus Whitfield from all advisory positions, effective immediately.’ Fourteen hands went up. Marcus’s didn’t count anymore. As they walked him out, I took my seat at the head of the table—the seat Daniel had promised me, the seat I’d earned twice over. ‘Now,’ I said, opening my portfolio, ‘shall we talk real numbers?’ Nobody laughed this time. They just started taking notes.