On my seventy-first birthday, my granddaughter stood at the head of my table and announced, “Starting Monday, I’m taking over the company.”

Mrs. Bell sat beside me with untouched tea. She had seen the slap, heard Natalie’s speech, and she was willing to say so.

Miriam spread the documents across the table.

Photographs.

Emails.

The draft resolution.

The attempted account transfers.

Screenshots of Natalie’s texts.

Medical photos of my injury.

The trust clause.

“This is worse than I expected,” Miriam said.

Adrian looked sick.

“She tried to schedule reserve transfers for Monday. Three accounts. Different entities.”

“Controlled by whom?” Miriam asked.

Adrian hesitated.

“Graham.”

The room went silent.

So that was the shape of it.

Natalie wanted the title.

Graham wanted the money.