Nathan shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“But I am the direct line,” Nathan said, looking between his father and the attorney.

“I am his son.”

Richard let out a low, raspy cough that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.

He gripped the silver handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white.

“You are my son in name only, Nathan,” Richard said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Outside, another bolt of lightning tore through the dark Manhattan sky, illuminating the room in a harsh, blue glare.

Nathan froze.

“What are you saying?” Nathan whispered.

“Your mother, Eleanor, was barren,” Richard said, his voice devoid of any warmth or regret.

“We tried for years, but she couldn’t carry a child to term.”

“So you adopted me?” Nathan asked, his voice cracking slightly.

“No,” Richard said, sneering.

“An adoption would have triggered the default clause in the trust.”

“If I had no biological children, the control of the Whitmore Group would have passed instantly to Margaret’s sister.”

“To Emily’s grandmother,” Mr. Hayes added quietly.