Chapter Three The Inauguration

Jace's Pov

Cameras started popping the moment I reached for the car handle.

Atlanta had a thing for power—everyone knew it.

And with the Norman name, you didn’t just turn heads. You made people scramble for a glimpse.

The first car door swung open.

Dad got out before me, looking sharp as ever in that fitted black suit. Sunlight caught on his silver cufflinks. People swarmed closer like he was royalty.

“Mr. Norman!”

“Over here, sir!”

“One picture, please!”

He gave them that perfect public smile—cool, measured, invincible.

Like nobody could imagine him ever messing up.

Then my door cracked open.

And the place just about doubled in volume.

“Is that Jace Norman?”

“He’s back from California!”

“Future heir, right?”

I adjusted my cuff, let the chaos bleed over me as bodyguards closed in. Reporters teetered right at the edge of the barricades, hungry for a shot.

Dad leaned in while we walked.

“Stand straight,” he hissed. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

The Sovereign Galleria towered behind us—six stories of glass and polished steel. Decked out in every high-end label you could name, even before the grand opening.

Dad liked to build monuments that screamed money before you even stepped inside.

The walk to the entrance felt endless, paved with politicians and investors itching for a handshake, desperate to be seen allied with Ed Norman.

The mayor was first. Huge grin, grip way too tight. “This project changes everything for Atlanta,” he practically shouted.

Dad soaked up the praise but played it off humble. “Atlanta deserves expansion—I plan to give it.”

Then all eyes landed on me.

“This must be the famous son.”

Polite nod. Tight smile.

“California graduate,” someone else piped up. The tone told me not all the rumors he’d heard were rosy.

But nobody talks straight when a rich kid’s in the room. Even wolves pretend to smile.

Inside, the lobby hummed with more power players—press, influencers, suits who’d sell their mother for a contract. In the just-finished hall, a gold sign blared:

THE SOVEREIGN GALLERIA

Lights. Music. Everyone waiting for the real spectacle.

The host’s voice rang out. “Please welcome the future of Norman Enterprises, Mr. Jace Norman!”

Applause—some real, most just for show. I straightened, remembering every lesson in posture and poise Dad ever drilled into me.

He watched from below, daring me to screw up.

A thousand watts of attention. One wrong word and he’d lecture me until next month.

I adjusted the mic. “Good morning.”

Silence. Not a phone beeped.

“Today’s more than a building. It’s about growth, opportunity, where Atlanta’s heading next.”

Chins bobbed. Investors liked the sound of their city on the rise.

“At Norman Enterprises, we believe development should last—create real influence, not just profits.”

More applause.

Probably more for Dad than me, but I kept rolling. I’d been raised for this—show enough confidence, nobody needed to check for honesty.

Then somebody from the press shouted:

“Mr. Norman!”

A woman stood, holding up her tablet, smile sharp as a blade.

“Before we talk about the future, what about your past?”

You could feel the shift—a wave of murmurs.

Dad’s jaw went stiff. I kept my cool.

“Not sure what you mean.”

Another reporter stood. “The California investigation.”

I heard the key words—drugs, assault, disciplinary reports.

A minute ago, those faces had hung on my words. Now they looked hungry, smelling blood.

I tightened my grip.

“Those issues are old news.”

“Are they?” She tapped something. “Documents say your name popped up a lot—but you never faced charges.”

“You’re right. No charges. Nothing stuck,” I shot back.

“But your name stuck.”

Dad glared a hole right through me.

“Repeated absences from football practice,” another reporter chimed in.

“University mistakes don’t prove I can’t run a company.”

He smiled like he had the upper hand. “Funny you say that. Where were you last night?”

I froze just a second. That was all it took.

“That doesn’t matter.”

Then he tapped his tablet, and up on the projector—Monarch Lounge, midnight. Me, walking out.

Crowd rustled. Next up, Royal Crest Hotel. Me again. Alone.

Somebody laughed. By now, the questions didn’t stop.

“Drinking?”

“Were you really alone?”

“Should investors trust you?”

I leveled my stare at them. “Partying isn’t the same as incompetence.”

The woman tilted her head. “Were you alone, Mr. Norman?”

I hesitated. Mistake. The pause shouted guilt.

Dad had heard enough. He stepped forward, voice like steel. “That's enough. This is a business event—not a tabloid circus.”

Too late. The story was no longer about the shiny building.

It was about my dirt.

Investors whispered, phones out, clips already going viral.

I stepped away while I still had control over my face.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I left.

—

The ride home was ice cold.

Dad didn’t say a word for ten minutes—just stared out the window. His silence stung worse than if he’d screamed.

Finally, he broke it.

“You embarrassed this family.”

I kept my eyes ahead. “They came looking for a show.”

“And you gave them one.”

“I handled it.”

“You looked weak.”

That word pissed me off. I met his eye. “I’m not weak.”

He didn’t even blink. “No. You’re careless.”

We pulled up at the house. He made a beeline for his office and poured a drink before spinning to face me.

“You know what investors fear most?” He didn’t wait. “Instability.”

“You showed them instability.”

“I can still run the company.”

He just scoffed. “You can’t control your image.”

I snorted. “So what, you want me to apologize to a bunch of hacks?”

He shook his head, glass in hand. “No. You’re getting married.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s necessary.”

I actually wondered if he’d lost it.

“You want me to marry someone because I got bad press?”

“I want people to see stability.”

“You mean control.”

He didn't flinch. “I mean survival.”

I shook my head. “I’m not marrying a stranger for your business, Dad.”

He stepped closer. “You want to inherit? Prove you can protect the family. Be the man the company needs.”

“I don’t even love anyone.”

“This isn’t about love.”

“Then what is it?”

He met my eye. “It’s about perception.”

I looked away, teeth clenched.

“One week. Find a suitable woman. Marry her. Stabilize your image.”

“And if I don’t?”

He locked eyes, cold and steady. “You won’t be my successor.”

The room went quiet in that dangerous way only my father could make happen.

He paused in the doorway. “One more thing. She needs to be from Atlanta. The public trusts what they know.”

Then he left me standing there—alone in the office with a life suddenly out of my control.

—

Charlotte’s POV

The bank teller counted it twice—ten thousand dollars.

I nodded, hands numb as I took the cash.

One night. Just one night.

Now I had enough to pay rent, cover Mom’s nursing home, and still eat for months.

I should’ve felt relief.

Instead, I felt wrung out and hollow, like I’d traded something more important than money.

His voice kept playing in my head—so casual, like everything had a price tag.

I pushed the thought out. Couldn’t dwell. Right now, the money mattered more than my pride.

Outside, I headed home. Same dingy hallway—smelled like smoke, old paint, and bad memories.

I eased my key in the lock.

The second I stepped inside—SLAP.

My head whipped to the side. Just like that, I tasted blood.

Bruce loomed over me, jaw tight, eyes red and wild. Too much booze, not enough sleep.

“Where the hell were you?”

I pressed my cheek, steady as I could.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I just got off work.”

“Night shift, huh?” He sneered. “Nice story. You didn’t come home.”

“I told you my schedule.”

He scanned me up and down, eyes darting. Then he spotted the bank envelope sticking from my bag.

All the anger vanished, replaced with something meaner.

“What’s that?”

I clutched the bag. “Nothing.”

He closed the gap, heat radiating off him. “Hiding money now?” His voice got low and scary. “That’s too much for your shift. Where did it come from?”

“Let go, Bruce.”

He yanked my arm.

“WHO PAID YOU?”

Suddenly, the apartment felt a lot smaller. Unsafe.

And for the first time since that hotel room, I wished I hadn’t come home.

Because the way he looked at me—I knew he’d do anything to find out. Literally anything. he barked.

Slow, I put a hand to my cheek. “What’s your problem?”

He sneered. “Don’t play games.”

“I was at work.”

He laughed in that ugly, bitter way. “All night?”

“Told you I had a late shift.”

“Late shift my ass.”

His eyes landed on the bank envelope peeking from my bag and he changed fast, eyes going greedy.

“What’s that?”

I gripped my bag tighter. “Nothing.”

He stepped in, close. “You hiding money from me?”

“It’s my salary.”

“Salary? That much?”

“My business, not yours—”

Wrong; I felt it shift right away. He grabbed my arm, tight.

“You think you’re smarter than me?”

“Let go, Bruce.”

“Where’d the money come from?”

I tried to break his grip. “Bruce—”

“WHO PAID YOU?”

Suddenly the apartment felt two sizes too small—two fists, even smaller.

For the first time since leaving that hotel, I honestly wished I hadn’t come home.

Because staring at Bruce, I realized he might do anything.