THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

The scent of aged mahogany leather and sharp imported perfume filled the main conference room of Lane Corp. Beyond the glass walls of the skyscraper, New York City looked small, as if bowing beneath the feet of the conglomerates seated around the massive oval table. But to Matthew Thomas, the room felt like a coffin slowly closing in.

Matthew stood at the end of the table. In his hands, a projector displayed a three-dimensional holographic schematic, a bold, futuristic architectural structure that still preserved a classical aesthetic.

“Project Monolith,” Matthew’s voice echoed as he tried to sound firm and commanding enough to reach the entire board of directors gathered that morning. “This project is not just a property expansion but the final legacy of Dominic Lane. My father-in-law designed this foundation five years ago. If we activate the dormant assets in the Northern sector and integrate them with the automated logistics system I designed, Lane Corp will monopolize the distribution routes within six months.”

The room fell silent. There was no applause, no nods of approval, only the soft hiss of the air conditioner and gazes filled with open contempt.

A heavyset man in an expensive gray suit, Reginald Holt, one of the minority shareholders yet the most vocal among them, let out a small laugh. It was dry and mocking, and it shattered the stillness.

“Monolith?” Reginald Holt leaned back, twirling a gold pen between his thick fingers. “Such a grand name for a midday fantasy. Tell me, Matthew, how much is left in your personal bank account right now? Five hundred dollars? Or less?”

Matthew’s face burned. “My personal finances have nothing to do with the validity of this project, Mr. Holt. This blueprint is solid. The risk analysis—”

“Risk analysis?” Reginald cut in sharply, his eyes narrowing. “The biggest risk to this company is listening to business advice from a man who cannot even pay off his own father’s gambling debts without his wife’s help. You talk about market monopolies while living off the charity of the Lane family.”

“That’s irrelevant!” Matthew raised his voice slightly and turned his gaze toward the young woman seated in the CEO’s chair at the head of the table. His wife. “Viviane, you reviewed the data last night. You know this will work. Dominic entrusted this to me before he died. He said, ‘Only Matthew understands the algorithm behind Monolith.’”

Viviane Lane, elegant in her ivory white blazer, remained silent. Her face was beautiful, yet pale. She knew about Project Monolith. It was her father’s final message, his last attempt to save Lane Corp.

Viviane had promised herself she would make it a reality. She was even conducting her own research on the project. But her mother’s overwhelming ego and blind trust in others’ opinions forced her to hesitate.

She looked at Matthew, then her eyes shifted quickly to the middle-aged woman seated to her right, Carol Lane. Fear was clearly visible in Viviane’s eyes. Her lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

“Viviane?” Matthew pressed.

Before she could answer, the harsh scrape of a chair being pushed back echoed through the room. Carol Lane stood up. She was in her early fifties, but elite skincare treatments made her look a decade younger. Her dominating presence flooded the room, drowning out Viviane’s authority as CEO.

Carol walked slowly toward Matthew. Her high heels struck the marble floor with sharp, deliberate clicks, like the ticking of a time bomb. She picked up the printed blueprint folder lying in front of him.

“Dominic is dead, Matthew,” Carol said coldly. Her voice was smooth but as sharp as a blade. “And the reason he gave this project to you was not because you are a genius, but because he was senile at the end of his life. He pitied you.”

“That’s not true,” Matthew shot back, his fists clenched at his sides. Pain began to throb at the back of his head, sharp and piercing, like hot needles. “He was a visionary, and he knew you never cared about this company except as a way to fund your socialite lifestyle.”

The board members collectively held their breath, all eyes fixed on Matthew. Insulting Carol Lane on her own territory was an act of suicide.

Carol merely smiled, a smile that never reached her eyes. “You talk about lifestyle? You eat from our plates, sleep under our roof, and wear suits bought by the wife you exploit. And you dare speak like that?”

“I have never exploited Viviane!” Matthew snapped. His blood began to boil.

“Oh, be quiet,” Carol hissed.

With a swift, dramatic motion, Carol lifted the fifty-page blueprint. In front of the twelve board members and Viviane, who lowered her head in shame, Carol tore it cleanly in half.

The sound of thick paper ripping was agony to Matthew’s ears. Carol did not stop there. She gathered the pieces and tore them again and again.

Until Project Monolith, Matthew’s six months of work and his sacred promise to Dominic became nothing more than shapeless trash.

“This,” Carol said, throwing the scraps straight into Matthew’s face.

Sharp pieces of paper sliced his cheek before fluttering down to the floor like dirty snow.

“This is the value of your idea, Matthew,” Carol said, pointing at the pile of paper at her son-in-law’s feet. “Zero. Just like your value in this family. You are nothing but a parasite—unambitious, poor, and pathetic.”

The pain in Matthew’s head surged violently. His vision blurred for a moment, turning into black spots before returning to normal. Blood roared in his ears. He looked at Viviane again, hoping for a single word of defense.

“Viviane,” Matthew whispered hoarsely. “Say something.”

Viviane lifted her face. Her eyes were glassy with tears, but she glanced at Carol, who was staring at her with a veiled threat.

Viviane might technically hold the majority of shares, but Carol controlled the family’s veto power and political connections that could destroy Viviane’s position overnight.