I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

He knew about the inheritance.

He knew letters had been sent.

And when I turned eighteen, he took my savings and threw me onto the street.

Not because I was an adult.

Not because he wanted me to become independent.

Because he needed me gone before the estate could find me.

I looked at Richard.

“What happens now?”

He smiled for the first time.

“Now you have thirty days.”

“To do what?”

“Survive.”

“And after thirty days?”

Richard closed his briefcase.

“You meet the board of Brooks Holdings.”

I blinked.

“The board?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“You decide whether you want the company.”

I stared at him.

“I thought I inherited everything.”

“You inherited the right to choose.”

He turned toward the alley entrance.

“But there’s one more thing you should know.”