Victoria looked at the crowd. The Board of Directors. The shareholders. The press. They were all watching her face, reading the catastrophe in her eyes.
If this girl was Alistair’s daughter, the succession plan was a lie. The 51% controlling interest Alistair had left to Victoria in his final will–based on the premise that she was his successor–was now legally vulnerable.
“Victoria?” William asked, seeing the color drain from his wife’s face.
She tried to hand him the paper, but her fingers went numb. The champagne glass she was holding in her left hand slipped.
*CRASH.*
The sound of the shattering glass echoed violently in the silent ballroom. It was the sound of the “Golden Era” breaking. The peace they had fought for, the stability of the stock price, the sanctity of the family unit–it all lay in shards on the floor.
Victoria looked at Melanie, who stood shivering in her cheap coat. She wasn’t just a girl. She was a biological weapon aimed at the heart of the company.