LUCAS’S POV
"She isn’t a decoration, Lucas. She is the anchor. If you want the Carter legacy to survive your own cold heart, you will put her in the Vice President’s chair."
My grandfather’s voice had been a raspy shadow of its former self, muffled by the hiss of the oxygen machine, but the iron in his words hadn't rusted. I had stood by his hospital bed, the sterile scent of bleach stinging my nose, feeling the walls of my carefully constructed world closing in.
"She’s a writer, Grandfather," I had countered, my voice tight. "She knows nothing of hostile takeovers or liquidity ratios, putting her in that office is an invitation for the board to devour us."
"Then teach her," he’d whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with a clarity that bordered on prophetic. "Because if you don't make
