Chapter 2

Mom saw everything, and it broke her heart.

That night, she held me tightly in her arms again, her tears soaking through the shoulder of my shirt.

"My sweet Nathaniel, why won't you speak to me?" she whispered. "If you could just say one word, just a single word, I could die happy."

I could feel her body trembling.

It was the heavy despair of a mother who felt entirely helpless.

My heart, after all, wasn't made of stone. For the first time, my resolve began to fracture. Perhaps it was finally time for me to speak.

But just as I parted my lips, preparing to enunciate a long-unused syllable, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed outside the study door.

Malcolm Prescott, our butler, practically burst into the room.

"Mrs. Wentworth, we have a massive problem!" he said. "The delegation from Ashbury has arrived. The Broadwell Street hedge-fund tycoon, Winston Pembroke, is already at the office!"

Mom's face instantly drained of color.

Winston Pembroke.

That name was a dark, suffocating cloud that had been hanging over Wentworth Group for months.

He was the most ruthless vulture on Broadwell Street, a corporate raider who specialized in shorting and dismantling historic Anoria-focused conglomerates.

Over the past few years alone, his fund had aggressively acquired three legacy corporations of our exact scale.

"What is he doing here?" Mom demanded.

Malcolm's voice shook. "H-He's here to negotiate an acquisition, but his tone was incredibly insulting. He said that he was here to make sure the Wentworths bow out of the market with what little dignity we have left!"

Mom stumbled backward, catching her balance against the edge of the desk.

A negotiated acquisition was just a polite euphemism for a hostile takeover. A massive corporate storm was about to breach our walls.

I looked up, staring out the window at the bleak, gray horizon.

It seemed my dream of quietly coasting along as a useless trust-fund baby was officially coming to an end.

So be it.

There were always some fools rushing in to poke the sleeping bear.

Dad called an emergency meeting at the penthouse conference room, summoning every prominent family member and high-level executive.

I was dragged along, too, left to stand quietly in the far corner of the room.

It was family protocol. As the eldest grandson, I was required to be present for all major family events.

In the past, I would usually find a blind spot, stand there all morning, and completely tune out.

Today, however, the atmosphere felt off.

The conference room was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop, and a humiliated, dark pallor washed over everyone's face.

Dad sat at the head of the long table, his expression dark enough to kill.

Standing right across from him was a tall, middle-aged man clad in a custom-tailored suit. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses hid a pair of sharp, predatory eyes.

This was Winston Pembroke, born with an Anorian face, but a shark raised in the cutthroat waters of Broadwell Street.

"Mr. Wentworth, is this how the Wentworths treat their guests?"

Winston spoke, his Corvian flawless, though his tone dripped with mockery. "I endured a grueling 14-hour flight from Newford, and this is the best your team can offer me?"

He extended a slender finger, gesturing dismissively toward the row of trembling executives lined up across the table.

"You're just a room full of glorified bean-counters who can do nothing but stare blankly at spreadsheets!

"I try to talk to you about capital, and you try to talk to me about sentimental value. I try to explain market indicators, and you give me a lecture on your century-old legacy.

"It's pathetic! Absolutely pathetic!"

He burst into a loud, arrogant laugh.

The sound echoed sharply off the walls of the solemn conference room, grating on everyone's nerves.

"Mr. Pembroke!"

Randall Carlisle, our Chief Financial Officer, slammed his hands on the table and stood up, his body shaking with rage. "This is a Wentworth Group board meeting. Your insolence will not be tolerated here!"

Winston shot him a sideways glance, disdain flashing across his face.

"Ah, Randall, I recognize you," Winston sneered. "You were the one lecturing me yesterday about how a family business has 'soul.'

"Let me tell you something about how we operate on Broadwell Street. A soul that doesn't generate profit means absolutely nothing. Only the weak try to mask their utter incompetence with sentimentality!"