REJECTED, THEN THEY FOUND OUT I WAS A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER FIVE: THE MAN ON THE THIRTY-SECOND FLOOR

Richard woke before his alarm. For several seconds, he stared at the ceiling, unsure why his chest felt so heavy. Then he remembered. The gala. Cara. The ring. His stomach twisted.

Richard rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. The screen showed 6:14 a.m.

There were eleven missed calls. Seven from Cara. Four from Lucas. He stared at the notifications without opening them. He didn't want to hear Cara's explanation. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Richard pushed himself out of bed and walked into the bathroom. His eyes were red. He splashed cold water over his face and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked exhausted. Older. For a moment, the reflection reminded him of the man he'd been yesterday.

Then his eyes dropped to the paper beside the sink. Blackwell and Grant, nine o'clock a.m. The lawyer. His father. The mysterious estate.

Richard picked up the paper. "This better not be a scam." He almost laughed. What kind of scam involved a dead father and an estate he had never heard about?

He dressed simply, grabbed his wallet, and left.

By 8:47 a.m., Richard was standing outside Blackwell and Grant. He looked up at the building.

Thirty-two floors of glass and steel rose above him. People walked through the revolving doors wearing expensive suits, carrying briefcases and speaking into phones.

Richard suddenly became aware of his own clothes. Dark trousers. White shirt. The same black shoes he'd worn to the gala.

He almost turned around. Then he remembered Cara's hand slipping into Marcus's. His jaw tightened. No. He walked inside.

The receptionist looked up. "Good morning."

"Good morning. I'm here to see Mr. Elias Grant."

She glanced at her computer. "Name?"

"Richard Black."

Her fingers stopped moving. She looked at him, then at the screen, then back at him. "Mr. Black?"

"Yes."

Something about her reaction made Richard uncomfortable. She picked up the phone. "Mr. Grant, Mr. Black is here." A pause. "Yes, sir." She hung up. "He's expecting you."

Richard nodded. "Thank you."

She pointed toward the elevators. "Thirty-second floor."

Richard walked away. Behind him, the receptionist immediately picked up the phone again. "He's here."

The elevator climbed quickly. Richard watched the numbers change. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. His stomach tightened when the number appeared. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Then thirty-two. The doors opened.

A man in a dark suit stood waiting. "Mr. Black?"

Richard nodded.

"Elias Grant." The lawyer extended his hand. Richard shook it. His grip was firm. "Come with me."

They walked through a quiet corridor. No assistants. No other visitors. Everything felt strangely private. Grant stopped at a large wooden door and opened it.

"Please."

Richard entered. The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. Books filled an entire wall. A large desk sat in the center of the room. Richard remained standing.

"Sit."

He lowered himself into the chair opposite Grant. For several seconds, neither spoke. Finally, Richard broke the silence.

"You said this was about my father."

"It is."

"My father died when I was six."

Grant folded his hands. "That's what you were told."

Richard frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means your understanding of your father's death is incomplete."

Richard's fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. "Was he murdered?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Grant opened a file. Inside were several documents. "I need you to understand something before we continue." Richard stared at him. "Your father wasn't an ordinary man."

A nervous laugh escaped Richard. "I don't understand."

"Your father was Alexander Black."

"I know."

Grant looked directly into his eyes. "No, Richard. I don't think you do."

He pushed a photograph across the desk. Richard picked it up. The man in the photograph looked familiar, not because Richard remembered him, but because he'd spent his entire childhood staring at an old photograph of the same man. Alexander Black, standing beside a black luxury car. Behind him was an enormous building.

Richard turned the photograph over. There was writing on the back. Alexander Black, 1997.

"What am I looking at?"

"Your father."

"I know that."

Grant opened another document. "Alexander Black founded Blackwell Holdings."

Richard stared at him. The name meant nothing.

Grant continued. "At its peak, Blackwell Holdings controlled companies in construction, logistics, finance, technology and real estate."

Richard blinked. "How much money are we talking about?"

Grant didn't answer immediately. Instead, he opened another folder. "Your father disappeared twenty-two years ago."

Richard's throat went dry. "You said he died."

"I said that's what you were told."

Richard leaned forward. "Then where was he?"

"We don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

Richard stood abruptly. "Then why am I here?"

Grant remained calm. "Because before he disappeared, your father left instructions."

Richard stared at him. "What instructions?"

Grant reached beneath the desk and brought out a sealed envelope. It was old. Yellowed at the edges. And written across the front were four words.

For Richard Black.

Richard stopped breathing for a moment. His name. His hands began to shake. "That's mine?"

"Yes."

"How long have you had it?"

"Twenty-two years."

Richard stared at the envelope. "Why didn't you give it to me before?"

"Because your father gave me strict instructions."

"What instructions?"

Grant's expression hardened. "I was told not to open it or contact you until your twenty-eighth birthday."

Richard looked at the envelope again. "Yesterday."

Grant nodded. "Exactly."

Richard reached for it. His fingers barely touched the paper when he caught a single line through the gap in the flap, just three words in a slanted, unfamiliar hand: trust no one. Then the office door burst open.

Both men turned. A young assistant stood there, breathing heavily.

"Mr. Grant."

Grant frowned. "What is it?"

The man's eyes moved toward Richard. "Security just received a call."

"From whom?"

"They said three men entered the building asking for Richard Black."

Richard's blood ran cold. Grant stood immediately.

"Where are they?"

"Thirty-first floor."

Silence. Richard slowly looked toward the window. Thirty-two floors above the ground. One elevator. One staircase. And someone had already found him.

Grant grabbed the envelope. "You're not leaving this office."

Richard's heart hammered. "Who are they?"

Grant looked at him. "I don't know."

A loud metallic sound echoed from somewhere beyond the corridor. The assistant's face went pale. Then came another sound. Footsteps. Heavy. Getting closer.

Grant locked the office door. Richard's eyes moved fast over the room, cataloguing it the way he never would have thought to a day ago. The heavy glass paperweight on the desk. The letter opener beside it, long and thin enough to matter.

A second door behind the bookshelf, half hidden, that probably led to a private stairwell or an adjoining office. He filed all of it away without fully deciding what he'd do with it, only that he wasn't going to stand there and simply wait to find out what these men wanted.

He reached out and closed his hand around the letter opener, sliding it off the desk and into his sleeve before Grant even noticed.

"Mr. Grant..."

Grant turned. "Whatever happens next, Richard." His voice dropped. "Do not let them take you."

"I don't intend to," Richard said, and for the first time since the ballroom, his voice didn't shake.

The footsteps stopped outside the door. Someone knocked. Three slow knocks. Richard's hands tightened around the small blade hidden in his sleeve. Then a man's voice came through the door.

"Richard Black."

Richard froze.

"We know you're in there."

And then the door handle began to turn