They were waiting for him to bleed.Lawrence could feel it the moment he stepped into the boardroom, the electric anticipation hanging in the air like the seconds before a lightning strike. The long mahogany table stretched before him like a battlefield, and seated around it were the vultures dressed in designer suits, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed hunger.The board members sat on one side, a united front of skepticism and smugness. On the other side sat three empty chairs, reserved for the guests who would decide whether LanceCorp's new CEO was worthy of their continued partnership or just another fraud who'd stumbled into power.Kent stood near the door, his expression carefully neutral, but Lawrence caught the slight tension in his shoulders. Even he was nervous about what was coming.Lawrence took his seat at the head of the table, the late Thomas Lance's chair, and felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room. He said nothing. He simply opened his leather portfol

Victory tasted like expensive coffee and the quiet hum of defeat in the voices of men who'd underestimated him.Lawrence stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, watching the three luxury cars pull away from LanceCorp headquarters. Victoria's Mercedes disappeared first, sleek and black, like a predator retreating to plan its next move. Marcus's Bentley followed, the old money trying to maintain dignity amid undeniable obsolescence. Elena's Tesla was last, silent and efficient, much like the woman herself.They'd all signed.Not just renewals or extensions of existing partnerships. They'd signed new contracts with terms heavily favoring LanceCorp, so much so that Kent had to read them twice.Four percent equity in Rousseau Tech's AI development. A thirty-seven percent increase in logistics software licensing fees from Ashford. And a technology partnership with Pemberton that gave LanceCorp first refusal on all their future automation contracts.The board sat through the con

Jordan Wicks looked like a man who'd finally found his moment to shine.He stood behind a podium at the Geneva Press Club, camera flashes exploding like artillery fire, microphones bristling before him like a forest of metal branches.Lawrence watched the live stream from his penthouse, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him. The feed had started ten minutes ago, and already Jordan had the room eating out of his hand."Ladies and gentlemen of the press," Jordan began. "I'm here today to expose a fraud. A dangerous man who manipulated his way into one of Europe's most powerful positions through deception, theft, and cruelty."The reporters leaned forward, sensing blood in the water.Lawrence's phone buzzed with an incoming call from Kent. He ignored it, eyes fixed on the screen where Jordan was building his narrative brick by poisonous brick."Lawrence Stiff," Jordan continued, practically spitting the name, "was married to Rebecca Edwards, daughter of the prestigious Edwards family.

The questions came at Lawrence like bullets—rapid-fire, overlapping, and journalists practically climbing over each other for attention."Mr. Stiff, when did you first learn about your father's identity?""How do you respond to claims that this revelation is conveniently timed?""What about the forged documents Jordan Wicks presented?"Lawrence raised his hand, and impossibly, the room went quiet again. They weren't interrogating him anymore. They waited for him to speak, hanging on his words like subjects before a king."I'm glad you brought up Mr. Wicks's documents," Lawrence said. "Because we need to address the elephant in the room. Jordan Wicks appeared before cameras yesterday, claiming irrefutable evidence of my fraud."The screen behind him changed, displaying the bank documents Jordan had distributed at his press conference, the suspicious payments to Swiss legal offices."These documents," Lawrence continued, gesturing to the screen, "are well-crafted forgeries. The signatur

The envelope was heavier than expected.Lawrence held it, feeling the weight of thick paper and embossed gold lettering that screamed old money and ancient power. The crimson wax seal on the back was stamped with an intricate design: a circle of interlocking chains forming what resembled a crown.The Titan's Circle.He'd heard whispers about it during his research into European business elites. Rumors of a gathering so exclusive that an invitation was more valuable than most corporate board positions. Where deals worth billions were struck over champagne and cigars, and where political careers were launched or destroyed with a single conversation.And they'd invited him.Kent stood across from Lawrence’s desk, watching his reaction with an expression of both pride and concern. "It arrived by private courier this morning. Hand-delivered to my office with instructions that only I was to give it to you."Lawrence broke the seal and pulled out the invitation. The card was thick as leather