My father’s boardroom was my battlefield. A glass-walled fortress on the seventieth floor of the Vance Tower, where I had won deals, crushed competitors, and secured the legacy my mother had left me. Now, I was a phantom haunting its perimeter, my essence a cold draft that no one would ever feel. The long mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the grim faces of the board members—my father’s sycophants and a few of my mother’s old guard, now looking cowed and powerless.
At the head of the table, my designated seat was empty. It was more than a chair; it was a throne, and its vacancy was a sucking wound in the heart of the room.
Alistair Vance, my father, strode in, his tailored suit a sheath of expensive rage. He didn’t look at the empty chair, but everyone in the room coul
