“Block the elevators,” I told the guard.

“Do not let anyone near my daughter.”

I slammed the receiver back onto the cradle, the plastic clicking loudly in the quiet room.

“What did you do, Richard?” I demanded, my voice shaking with sudden rage.

Nathan took a step toward his father, his large frame casting a long shadow across the polished wood.

“What is downstairs, Dad?” Nathan asked.

Richard did not answer immediately.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief, and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.

“I did what was necessary to protect the legacy,” Richard said, his voice thin but resolute.

“This company does not belong to outsiders.”

Mr. Hayes stepped forward, placing a thick, ribbon-bound folder on the center of the table.

“It doesn’t belong to you either, Richard,” Mr. Hayes said calmly.

The attorney opened the folder, revealing yellowed documents with official red wax seals.

“This is the original charter of the Whitmore Trust, dated October 14th, 1922,” Mr. Hayes continued.

“It states that the entirety of the family’s corporate shares must remain with the direct biological line of Margaret Whitmore.”