The Donovan family mansion looms before me like a fortress of old money and older grudges. My hands shake as I adjust my tie one final time. Everything depends on this moment. My family's company, my father's legacy, my mother's future—it all rests on what happens in the next hour.
The butler leads me through marble hallways lined with portraits of distinguished ancestors. Each face seems to judge me as I pass. By the time we reach the study, my shirt is damp with sweat despite the October chill.
"Mr. Ethan Pierce," the butler announces.
Theodore Donovan sits behind a mahogany desk that probably costs more than most people's cars. At seventy-eight, he still commands respect with his steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes. My uncle Samuel stands beside him, arms crossed. My cousins Mason and Gabriel lounge in leather chairs, both wearing expressions of barely concealed disgust.
"Grandfather," I say, my voice cracking slightly.
