I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends. – usnews

I nodded.

“I believe you.”

He looked down.

“I’m sorry.”

For a moment, I thought about all the years I’d spent believing he was the favorite because he was better than me.

But the truth was simpler.

My father had simply decided that I was disposable.

I turned back to the board.

“So what happens now?”

Margaret Ellis folded her hands.

“That depends on you.”

I frowned.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

She slid a document toward me.

“Your grandfather gave you controlling ownership of Brooks Holdings.”

I stared at the percentage.