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 glanced at me.

“They will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because your grandfather planned for everything.”

The elevator took us to the thirty-second floor.

When the doors opened, I stepped into a boardroom larger than my entire old house.

Seven people sat around a long black table.

Executives.

Lawyers.

Accountants.

Senior partners.

And at the far end sat the chairman.

An elderly woman named Margaret Ellis.

She stood as I entered.

“Nathan Brooks.”

I nodded.

“Ms. Ellis.”

She smiled.

“Your grandfather spoke very highly of you.”

I swallowed.

“He knew me?”

“Better than you think.”

Richard placed a folder on the table.

“Before we begin,” he said, “there is one issue we need to resolve.”

I looked around.

“What issue?”

Richard glanced at the door.

It opened.

And my father walked in.