Chapter 3 - The Forgotten Grandson
"What does he mean by heir?" I asked, my voice shaking as I stared down at the paralyzed billionaire. "Mr. Sterling, my son is a teenager from the South Side. He has nothing to do with your empire."
Marcus stepped closer, his face grave as he picked up the leather folder from the floor and opened it to a yellowed legal document dated November 14, 1995.
"When Elijah Vance was ousted from Sterling Global," Marcus explained, his voice low and heavy, "he held thirty-five percent of the voting shares. To prevent him from selling those shares to a hostile entity, Adrian signed a secret irrevocable covenant. It stated that if Elijah's bloodline ever produced a male heir who demonstrated mechanical or technological aptitude before his eighteenth birthday, thirty percent of the Sterling family trust would immediately revert to that heir."
I gasped. "My father never mentioned a covenant."
"He didn't know about it," Marcus said. "Elijah thought Adrian betrayed him. He didn't realize Adrian signed the covenant behind his board's back to protect Elijah's future grandchildren. But Eleanor found out three weeks ago when she went through Adrian's private safe. That’s when she realized your son, Leo, stood between her children and total control of forty billion dollars."
The pieces fell into place with sickening velocity.
"Leo didn't get into a random fight at school," I whispered, horror rising in my chest like bile. "Two older boys cornered him in the parking lot yesterday. They tried to provoke him... they were trying to give him a criminal record so he'd be legally disqualified from holding a corporate trust!"
Adrian clicked his throat furiously, his heart monitor spiking to 140 beats per minute.
G-E-T.
H-I-M.
N-O-W.
"Marcus, get your guards to secure my house," I ordered, my nurse persona vanishing entirely, replaced by the fierce, protective instinct of a mother. "My three kids are home alone with their grandmother. If Eleanor realizes we know the truth—"
Before I could finish my sentence, the heavy oak doors of the master suite swung wide open.
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Standing in the entryway, dressed in a sleek white linen suit and holding a glass of scotch, was Julian Sterling—Adrian’s thirty-two-year-old son. Behind him stood two muscular men in dark suits.
"Well, well," Julian sneered, taking a slow sip of his drink as his eyes swept over the room, settling on Arthur bound in the chair, then on me holding his father's hand. "Look at the cozy little rebellion brewing in the dying man's bedroom."
