The past forty-eight hours had blurred together—lawyer meetings, signatures, disclosures—and the sudden realization of how many predators circle the moment power shifts.
I hadn’t seen my mother since the dinner in Aspen. Her calls had been relentless at first, then abruptly stopped. I assumed her attorney had finally read the clause my grandfather had added. But I knew it wasn’t finished.
At my first board meeting, I walked into a room filled with people twice my age. Some acknowledged me with stiff nods, others barely glanced up. One man stood, though—Michael Grant, the CFO, a company veteran with decades behind him.
“Mr. Blackwell,” he said, offering his hand.
“Call me Adrian.”
He smiled faintly. “Not anymore.”
We moved through financials, expansion plans, a lawsuit in New Mexico, and a land acquisition in Utah. I listened more than I spoke. When it ended, Michael pulled me aside.
“They’re watching you closely. Half expect you to fail. The rest are waiting to see who controls you.”
“Am I already messing up?”
“Not yet. But some people believe they should be sitting in your chair.” He paused. “Including your mother.”
“She doesn’t work here.”