Chapter 4 - The Golden Nephew
Grant leaned against the doorframe, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. At thirty-eight, he still carried the bloated, entitled aura of a frat boy who had never been told no.
“Uncle Arthur,” Grant drawled, tossing his car keys onto an antique side table with an insolent clatter. “You shouldn't be wandering around down here. You know how confusing the real world gets for you these days. Let Nurse Clara take you upstairs before you fall and break a hip.”
“Grant,” my father spat, his knuckles turning white around the rubber grips of his walker. “You kept my son’s letters from me?”
“Of course I did,” Grant replied without a shred of remorse, stepping into the room and glancing dismissively at Nora and me. “He disowned the family, Uncle Arthur. Aunt Evelyn and I were simply protecting your fragile heart from being poisoned by a traitor. We didn’t need his pathetic, guilt-ridden apologies cluttering up the mail.”
Grant walked straight up to me, standing chest to chest, looking me up and down. His smirk widened.
“Well, well. Look at little Ethan. You made a couple of lucky software bets, and suddenly you think you’re a titan, huh? You think because Wall Street is pumping your stock this week, you can walk in here and play the conquering hero?”
I didn't blink. I didn't move a muscle. Nine years ago, Grant’s condescension would have made my blood boil. Today, standing in front of him with a company that generated more revenue in a single quarter than all three of his failing dealerships combined, he looked painfully small.
“You’re late, Grant,” I said quietly.
Grant scoffed, turning toward Evelyn. “Did he sign the papers, Aunt Evelyn? Did you get the board seat squared away? Lumena’s stock is trading at an all-time high today. My contacts at Morgan Stanley say the enterprise value is sitting comfortably at four-point-two billion. If we get my appointment finalized by Monday morning, our credit lines will unlock before the IRS freezes the holding company.”
My father looked at Grant, then at Evelyn, the puzzle pieces finally connecting in his aging mind.
“The IRS?” Arthur asked, his voice shaking with a terrible, gathering storm. “What holding company? What credit lines?”
Evelyn winced, glaring furiously at Grant for his loose tongue. “Grant, be quiet! Not here!”
“Why not here?” Nora asked, stepping smoothly into the center of the room. She opened her designer leather tote bag and pulled out a sleek, ultra-thin laptop, setting it casually on the edge of the mahogany table. “We’re all family here, aren't we? That’s what Mrs. Ashford said on the front porch. ‘Family business.’ Let’s talk about family business.”
Grant laughed, an ugly, grating sound. “Look at the waitress trying to play CFO. Put the toy away, sweetie. The grown-ups are talking.”
“Grant,” I warned, my voice dropping so low it rattled the glassware on the silver tray. “Watch your mouth.”
Nora didn't even look angry. She opened the screen with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Actually, Grant, as Chief Technology Officer and majority equity partner of Lumena Systems, I don't just play with numbers. I track forensic data. When your aunt called Ethan yesterday morning, I knew she wasn’t calling out of maternal love. So I spent the last twenty-four hours doing what I do best: parsing your digital footprint.”
Nora tapped the spacebar. The high-definition screen lit up, displaying a complex, color-coded financial flowchart linking six corporate accounts.
At the very top of the chart, highlighted in bold red letters, was the name: Ashford Capital Holdings LLC.
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Beneath it was a single signatory: Grant Ashford, Power of Attorney.
Arthur gasped, his eyes darting to his wife. “Power of attorney? Evelyn... what did you sign?”
