Back then, everyone treated Floyd’s words as a joke.After all, Preston was just a junior at Stanford, busy with fraternity parties and sailing regattas, with zero interest in the law.And Floyd, though in his sixties, was healthy and full of energy. It looked like he had at least another decade of work in him.No one could have predicted that fate would rewrite everything on one rainy night.It was my fifth year with the firm.A phone call jolted me awake at three in the morning.“Victoria, something’s happened,” the secretary’s voice was shaking. “Floyd was in a car accident on his way home.”At the hospital, I saw Preston for the last time before he became my boss.He held his father’s hand, the grief in his eyes raw and real.“Victoria,” Floyd said with his last breath, “take care of the firm. And take care of Preston.”After the funeral, Preston officially took over.At first, I thought he would continue his father’s legacy—focusing on professional excellence, with victory as the
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