The closing was set for four o’clock sharp, and my father treated it like a coronation. Gordon Hale loved conference rooms—glass walls, polished tables, leather chairs—anywhere authority could echo back at him. I arrived early, navy suit pressed, a slim folder tucked under my arm. I didn’t announce myself. I didn’t have to. My name was on the invite, even if my father had decided it must be a mistake. My half-brothers, Trent and Logan, were already sprawled in their seats, expensive sneakers propped out, confidence loud enough to take…
Read MoreAT THE CLOSING, MY FATHER JEERED, “HERE TO MOP THE FLOORS?” HIS SONS LAUGHED—UNTIL THE BUYER STOOD AND SAID, “SIR, MEET THE CHAIRMAN WHO JUST BOUGHT YOUR DEBT.”
