Arthur Sterling, the patriarch whose wealth was built on a foundation of "strategic silence," sat at the head. To his right was Elias, the eldest son and heir apparent, who spent his life mimicking his father’s posture until his own spine felt like glass. To his left was Julian, the "prodigal" who had returned after five years of radio silence, smelling of cheap cigarettes and secrets.

Elias didn't open the letter. Instead, he stood up, tucked it into his pocket, and looked at Julian. "Let's go," Elias said.

Arthur finally looked up. His eyes were cold, professional. "She left because she was weak. And she gave you that money because she knew you were the weakest link. A bribe to stay away."

"Is that what you told yourself?" Julian stood up, pulling a crumpled, yellowed envelope from his jacket. "Because I didn't come back for the merger, or the money. I came back because she died three weeks ago in a small apartment in Marseille. And she left a letter for Elias. Not for you, Arthur. Never for you."

"The board is concerned about the merger, Elias," Arthur said, not looking up from his steak. "They think you’re soft."

Elias tightened his grip on his fork. "I’m not soft, Father. I’m ethical. There’s a difference."

"She gave it to me," Julian whispered, his bravado slipping. "She called me the night before she left. She said one of us had to get out before the walls closed in."

Julian tossed the letter onto the table. It slid across the polished mahogany, stopping right in front of Elias.