I turned eighteen on a Tuesday.simo No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends

“A recording.”

“Of what?”

Richard’s expression became serious.

“Your father.”

My heart stopped.

“When was it recorded?”

“Two months ago.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Your grandfather knew he was dying.”

I stared at the flash drive.

“What did he record?”

Richard didn’t answer.

Instead, he handed me his phone.

A video was already open.

I pressed play.

The screen showed a conference room.

My father sat at a long table.

Across from him was an older man I recognized immediately.

James Brooks.

My grandfather.

Alive.

Healthy.

Angry.

My father leaned forward.

“You’re making a mistake.”

My grandfather shook his head.

“No, Daniel. The mistake was trusting you.”

“You can’t leave everything to that boy.”

“He is my grandson.”

“He doesn’t know anything about business.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

My father slammed his fist onto the table.

“He’s weak.”

My grandfather smiled sadly.

“No. He’s unspoiled.”