Mr. Hayes looked at me, his expression softening.

“Your daughter, Lily,” the attorney said.

“She is the only living person with Margaret Whitmore’s DNA.”

“She is the sole legal heir to the entire Whitmore empire.”

A profound silence fell over the boardroom.

The storm outside seemed to fade into a dull hum.

My four-month-old daughter, who was currently sleeping in the nursery downstairs, owned the high-rise we were standing in.

She owned the factories, the shipping lines, and the bank accounts.

“This is absurd,” Richard muttered, though his voice had lost its strength.

“A court will never hand control of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate to an infant.”

“They won’t have to,” Mr. Hayes countered.

“A legal guardianship trust will be established, managed by Emily.”

“Until Lily comes of age, Emily holds the voting power.”

Richard’s eyes darted to me, filled with a pure, venomous hatred.

I stood my ground, crossing my arms over my chest.

“It is over, Richard,” I said.

“You are going to sign the transition papers, and you are going to leave this building.”

Richard’s lips twitched into a strange, unsettling smile.