Mr. Hayes took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“But you did not give him the Whitmore bloodline, Richard,” Mr. Hayes said softly.

The attorney turned to me, his expression a mixture of professional gravity and deep sympathy.

“Margaret was the sole biological child of the late patriarch,” Mr. Hayes explained, looking back at Nathan.

“She was the true heir to the entire Whitmore estate,” I added.

“But she wanted nothing to do with Richard’s greed,” I said. “He threatened her, so she ran.”

I remembered the old wooden chest in my mother’s attic, filled with faded letters she had never dared to mail.

She had spent her life hiding from the Whitmore family, living under an assumed name in a small cottage in upstate New York.

“You took an orphan from an agency to secure your place in this boardroom,” Nathan said, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides.

“The board would have dissolved the trust if there was no direct male heir,” Richard said, his voice rising slightly.

He leaned heavily on his silver-tipped cane, his knuckles turning stark white.