The morning sun came straight through the windows of the St. Regis suite. It was 7:45 AM. The light was harsh, unfiltered, and like nothing had happened eight hours ago.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at a face I barely recognized. The bruising under my eyes was dark, purple crescents of exhaustion that no amount of cold water could shock away. My skin looked grey. But it was the eyes that scared me. They were steady. They were flat. They didn't look like they should have.
On the marble counter, the tablet vibrated softly against the counter.
TIME: 07:46 AM.
EVENT: BOARD MEETING.
LOCATION: THORNE TOWER, 40TH FLOOR. OBJECTIVE: CLAIM THE CHAIR.
STATUS: PENDING.
I looked away from the screen and back to the mirror. I reached for the razor. My hand trembled just a microscopic tremor, a glitch in the software but I forced it still. I shaved slowly, deliberately. Every stroke was a ritual. I was peeling away the college student, the grieving son, the boy who used to ask for permission. I was carving out something else.
In the bedroom, my mother was still asleep. I had checked on her ten minutes ago. She was curled into a fetal ball under the heavy down comforter, clutching a pillow like a lifeline. The empty vodka bottle on the nightstand stood guard beside her. She looked small. Fragile. For the first time in twenty years, I realized that she wasn't the queen of the chessboard. She was just a piece that had been moved, captured, and discarded. Arthur Vance had used her fear to kill my father, and now he was going to use her silence to bury the company.
She couldn't come with me. She couldn't be there. If Vance saw her, he would see the guilt written all over her face. He would crack her in five minutes.
I walked to the closet. The "Janitor" service my father's posthumous concierge had stocked it while we slept. There was no casual wear. No jeans. No hoodies. Just a row of charcoal and navy suits, tailored to my measurements, wrapped in plastic.
I tore the plastic off the first one.
A charcoal suit. White shirt. Black tie.
I dressed in silence. The fabric felt heavy, like armor plating. The starch in the collar was stiff against my neck, a reminder to keep my head up. I tied the tie, the knot forming a perfect, severe triangle. I slid my feet into polished oxfords that looked like they had never touched pavement.
I checked my pockets. Phone? Gone. Burned. Wallet? Gone. Burned.
I picked up the tablet. It was the only thing I owned. It was all I had.
I slipped it into the inside pocket of my blazer. It fit perfectly, resting against my ribs like a second heart.
I didn't leave a note for my mother. There was nothing to say. I walked out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut with a sound loud in the quiet hallway.
The ride to Thorne Industries was a blur of steel and glass. The car the Janitors had provided the black, unregistered sedan navigated the morning gridlock with aggressive efficiency. I wasn't driving; the autopilot was engaged, synced to the tablet's navigation. I sat in the driver's seat, my hands hovering over the wheel, watching the city slide by.
We passed the news tickers in Times Square.
BREAKING: TRAGEDY IN THE HILLS.
GAS EXPLOSION DESTROYS THORNE ESTATE.
BILLIONAIRE MARCUS THORNE PRESUMED DEAD.
Presumed. That was the key word. That was the crack in the door that Arthur Vance was trying to weld shut.
The car pulled up to the curb of Thorne Tower. It was a monolith of black glass that tore into the sky, dwarfing the surrounding buildings. It was a fortress. And right now, it was occupied by the enemy.
I stepped out. The air smelled of exhaust and expensive coffee. A phalanx of reporters was camped out by the revolving doors, vultures waiting for a carcass. They saw me.
"David! David!" "Mr. Thorne! Was it a gas leak?" "Where is your mother?" "Do you have a comment on the stock drop?"
The cameras flashed, a strobe light assault. I didn't flinch. I didn't blink. I remembered the tablet's instructions from earlier: Silence is power. Let them project their own narrative.
I walked straight through them. I kept walking and they moved. I reached the revolving door and pushed through into the lobby.
The lobby was vast and quiet. Vaulted ceilings, abstract sculptures that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, and the hush of serious money. But today, the hush was different. It was tense.
Dozens of employees paused. Heads turned. Phones were lowered. The receptionist, a woman named Sarah who had known me since I was twelve, dropped her pen. Her mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. They were looking at a ghost. They expected me to be in a hospital, or a morgue, or hiding in the Hamptons. They didn't expect me to be here, in a suit that cost five thousand dollars, walking toward the elevators.
I swiped my hand over the security turnstile. I didn't have a badge.
The light turned red. ACCESS DENIED.
Of course. Vance had already scrubbed my clearance. He wasn't wasting time.
A security guard new guy, thick neck, nervous eyes, stepped forward. "Mr. Thorne, sir... I... I can't let you up. The system says..."
I didn't look at him. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the tablet. I held it against the scanner.
The screen flickered. Lines of code flashed across the screen.
Bzzt.
The turnstile light turned green. OVERRIDE: ALPHA.
The gate swung open.
I walked past the guard. He didn't move to stop me. He looked at the scanner, then back at me, terror in his eyes. He knew that code level. That was my father's override.
I stepped into the executive elevator. It was a private car, glass-walled, rocketing upward at ten meters per second. The city shrank beneath me. The cars became toys, the people became ants. I felt a surge of vertigo, not from the height, but from the realization of what I was about to do.
I pulled the tablet out.
TARGET PROXIMITY: 50 METERS.
MEETING IN SESSION.
ATTENDEES: 12.
VANCE'S STATUS: SPEAKING.
INSTRUCTION: WALK IN. SIT DOWN. WAIT FOR THE SIGNAL.
The elevator dinged. Floor 40. The Executive Suite.
The hallway was lined with portraits of the company's history. My grandfather. My father. And at the end of the hall, an empty space where Vance undoubtedly planned to hang his own picture.
The double doors to the boardroom were closed. I could hear a voice droning on from inside. It was smooth, practiced, dripping with faux-solemnity.
Arthur Vance.
I didn't knock. I didn't hesitate. I placed my hand on the handle, took a breath that tasted of recycled air and ozone, and shoved the doors open.
They swung wide with a heavy thud, hitting the stops.
The room froze.
Twelve heads snapped toward me. The Board of Directors. Men and women I had known my whole life. People who had come to my birthday parties. People who sent Christmas cards. They were sitting around the massive oval table made of reclaimed redwood, staring at me like I was a corpse that had walked out of its grave.
And at the head of the table, my father's chair, stood Arthur Vance.
He was mid-gesture, hand raised, frozen. He looked exactly like his picture in the dossier: silver hair, impeccable tan, a suit that whispered authority. But when he saw me, the color drained out of his face so fast it was almost comical.
"David," he managed. His voice was a strangled squeak before he cleared his throat and found his baritone again. "David. My god. We... we thought you were sedated. The doctors said..."
"Which doctors, Arthur?" I asked. My voice was quiet, but in the acoustically perfect room, it carried like a shout.
I walked into the room. The carpet was thick, swallowing the sound of my footsteps. I didn't look at the other board members. I kept my eyes locked on Vance.
"We were just discussing the... the tragedy," Vance said, recovering his composure. He was good. I had to give him that. He adjusted his cufflinks, a nervous tic I had never noticed before. "Please, son. Sit down. We can take a recess. You shouldn't be here. You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock," I said. "And I'm not tired."
I reached the head of the table. Vance was standing in front of the chair. My father's chair.
I stopped two feet from him. I was taller than him. I hadn't realized that until now. I had always felt small around these men, intimidated by their wealth and their history. But now, looking at him, I saw the sweat beading on his upper lip. I saw the dilated pupils.
He was terrified.
"That's my father's chair," I said.
A gasp went around the table. Old Mrs. Halloway, the majority shareholder, pressed a hand to her pearl necklace.
Vance laughed a short, nervous bark. "David, please. This is a board meeting. You have no standing here. Your father's estate is in probate. Until the legalities are settled, I am the acting CEO. That is the bylaw."
"The bylaw," I repeated. "Section 4, Paragraph 2. In the event of the Chairman's death, the CFO assumes interim control."
"Exactly," Vance smiled, thinking he had won on a technicality. "Now, why don't you go down to my office, have a coffee, and we'll talk after "
"Unless," I interrupted, "the CFO is under investigation for corporate espionage and conspiracy to commit murder."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was heavy enough to crush bones.
Vance's smile vanished. His eyes narrowed into slits. "Careful, boy. You're distressed. You're saying things you can't take back. Slander is a dangerous game."
"It's not slander if it's on video," I said.
I pulled the tablet from my jacket. I placed it on the polished redwood table. It looked alien against the wood industrial, scarred, military.
I tapped the screen.
CAST TO: ROOM DISPLAY.
The massive 80-inch screen behind Vance flickered to life.
Vance turned around.
The video played. The grainy black-and-white footage from the hotel room. Vance counting the money. The blueprints of my house on the table.
"The old man won't see it coming," Vance's voice boomed through the room's surround sound speakers. "He thinks his wife is too weak. But give her the knife, and she'll do the work for us."
The audio was crisp. Undeniable.
I watched the board members. Mrs. Halloway looked like she was going to faint. The General Counsel, a shark named Sterling, was already typing furiously on his phone, distancing himself.
Vance stared at the screen. He was trembling. He turned back to me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
"That's... that's deepfake," he stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the screen. "That's AI! He fabricated it! The boy is insane! He killed his father and now he's trying to frame me!"
He lunged for the tablet. "Turn it off!"
He was fast, but the tablet was faster.
As his hand touched the device, the screen flashed red.
THREAT DETECTED.
DEFENSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.
A sharp, painful sound burst from the tablet. It was directional, aimed straight at Vance.
He screamed and clutched his ears, stumbling back. He hit the edge of the credenza and collapsed, writhing on the floor, gasping for air.
The rest of the room was unaffected. They just watched, horrified, as the Acting CEO curled into a ball on the carpet.
I tapped the screen again. The noise stopped.
I looked at the Board.
"Arthur Vance provided the security codes that allowed my father's murder," I said calmly. "He is fired. Effective immediately. His shares are seized under the Traitor Clause of the company charter."
I looked at Sterling, the lawyer. "Is that correct, Mr. Sterling?"
Sterling looked at Vance on the floor, then at me. He looked at the tablet, which was now displaying a live feed of Vance's offshore bank accounts. He did the math. He realized where the power had shifted.
"Yes," Sterling said, his voice tight. "That is... technically correct. If the evidence holds."
"It holds," I said.
I walked around the table. I stepped over Vance's legs.
I grabbed the back of the heavy leather chair, my father's chair. I pulled it out.
I sat down.
The leather was cold. It groaned slightly under my weight. I placed my hands on the armrests. They felt natural there.
"Now," I said, looking at the stunned faces of the most powerful people in the city. "Let's discuss the future."
The tablet on the table vibrated again. A new message.
I glanced down, shielding the screen with my hand.
TARGET 1: VANCE - NEUTRALIZED. ASSETS RECOVERED.
NEW TARGET UNLOCKED. NAME: SENATOR JOHN GABLE.
CRIME: OBSTRUCTION.
TIME LIMIT: 24 HOURS.
I felt a chill run through me. Senator Gable. He was the man leading the investigation into the fire. He was the one who could unseal the records.
The machine wasn't done. It was just hungry.
I looked up at the board members, who were waiting for me to speak. I forced a smile. It felt like a rictus, a baring of teeth.
"First item of business," I said. "We need to make a donation to Senator Gable's reelection campaign."
Under the table, my hand shook. But on the surface, I was stone.
I knew this wasn't over.