The documents in Marcus Thorne’s hand were not just paper; they were the sound of Tyler Vance’s world collapsing.
Tyler stared at the signatures, his chest heaving. "This is a fake," he hissed, though his voice lacked conviction. "It’s a stunt. Uncle Marcus, you’re in on this? You’re helping this... this nobody play a prank on me?"
He looked around at his men, seeking a spark of the old bravado. "He’s a live-in loser! He probably spent his life savings on a high-end forgery! You think you can just walk in and take a building that belongs to my father?"
Before the insult could fully leave his lips, Tyler’s phone shrieked in his pocket.
He snatched it out, his eyes widening as he saw the caller ID: **Samson North**. His father.
"Father!" Tyler barked into the receiver, regained his post
