The Heir They Humiliated

CHAPTER 6

 

A man in a flashy, high-end suit had attached himself to our small group the moment we entered the building. He hovered near me and Helen, but the bodyguards kept him at a distance, refusing to let anyone else enter the private elevator.

"Who was that?" I asked Helen as the lift began its smooth, silent ascent.

"That was Mr. Davis, the CEO of this branch," she replied. "He’s a shark. Strict, efficient, and he’s managed over seven hundred employees here for the last eight years without a single dip in performance."

I caught my reflection in the polished brass of the elevator door and grinned. "So, Helen, how many employees do I actually have under me?"

She stared at me for a moment, then blew out her cheeks in a helpless, amused exhale. "To be honest, Aaron? You can't count them. Between the subsidiaries, the holdings, and the international branches, it’s impossible to give you a static number."

I laughed softly. This was the dream I hadn't dared to have. I controlled thousands of lives, and I didn't even know their names.

"By the way," I said as the floor indicator climbed toward the summit, "you can cut out the 'Mr. Van Alen' stuff. Call me Aaron."

Her eyes flashed with surprise. She hesitated, then gave a professional nod. "Of course, Mr. Van Alen. I mean... Aaron."

The doors parted, revealing the only office on the top floor. I stepped out and actually gasped. It was less of an office and more of a cathedral to capitalism. It featured a private barista station, a lounge with leather couches that felt like clouds, and a massive mahogany desk that looked like it belonged to a head of state. Three floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Kingston. I walked to the glass and looked down. People looked like ants. From up here, I finally felt like a Van Alen.

A soft knock sounded. Helen opened the door for Mr. Davis, who walked in with a practiced, rugged smile. He looked smart, but his eyes were sharp—the eyes of a man who knew how to survive in deep water.

"Mr. Van Alen, what a pleasure to finally meet you in person," Davis said, his voice brimming with calculated respect.

"Have a seat, Davis," I said, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.

He sat, placing a thin leather folder on the mahogany surface. "I’m Davis Louis, CEO of this branch. I won't waste your time, sir. I’d like to know if there are immediate changes you’d like to see as you take over."

I glanced at Helen. She stepped forward. "Mr. Davis is asking if you'd like to restructure the departments or adjust the executive staff."

I leaned back, steepening my fingers just as my grandfather had taught me. I let the silence hang for a moment. "From the reports I’ve vetted, your gross profit has increased steadily for three years. There’s no reason to fix what isn't broken. We keep the current staff. Changes only happen if the numbers drop."

Davis visibly relaxed. He liked what he saw: a young boss who was patient and logical. It saved him the headache of a corporate purge.

"Anything else, sir?" he asked, preparing to stand.

"Actually, yes." I leaned forward, my voice dropping into a cold, flat register. "I want to purchase a company. How long does a hostile takeover typically take?"

Davis didn't blink. "For a Van Alen? You can buy whatever you want. Which company?"

"Brentwood Limited," I said.

Davis frowned, his mental Rolodex spinning. "Brentwood? I don't recognize the name. Give me a moment." He pulled out a tablet and scrolled furiously. His frown deepened. "Brentwood Limited? Sir, this is a bottom-tier design firm. It doesn't even have two hundred employees. It’s barely a blip on the radar. We could swallow it in three days."

"Three days?" I asked.

"Easily. We buy up the available shares, exert pressure on their creditors, and the company is ours. If you want the owner gone, we can bankrupt him in a week. If we find any financial irregularities—and men like that always have them—we can have him in a cell."

"Do it," I said. My face was a mask of merciless intent. "I want the whole company. I want the owner left with nothing but the clothes on his back."

Helen watched Davis leave, then turned to me, her brow furrowed in bewilderment. "What do you want with a failing design firm, Aaron?"

I rose and grabbed my jacket. "Don't worry about that, Helen. Just make sure the paperwork is ready."

"My grandfather never called your father by his first name," she noted quietly as I headed for the door.

I looked back at her. "I'm not my grandfather."

I didn't take a driver. I took the most aggressive car in the garage—a matte black Lamborghini—and drove toward my old life. I parked in front of the house where I had once lived as a servant in my own marriage. When I knocked, the door was opened by the one person I wanted to see least.

"Ugh, this motherfucker," I thought.

"Well, well," Jax sneered, leaning against the doorframe. "If it isn't the rejected bastard." He stopped, his eyes widening as he took in my suit and the car idling behind me. "Who’d you steal that suit from, Carter? Does it come with a tissue for that stupid face of yours?"

I kept my fists unclenched. His ignorance was almost pitiful.

"Jax, who is it?" Beatrice called out, appearing behind him. She froze. Her jaw actually dropped. "You? What the hell do you want? You still look as weak as ever, Carter."

It was a blatant lie. She was shaking. She could see the transformation, even if she refused to admit it.

The sound of tires screeching on the driveway drew our attention. A sleek Mercedes pulled in, and Elara stepped out, looking tired. She froze mid-step, her eyes locking onto mine.

The King had returned to the Maw, and the hunt was finally on.