Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Boardroom
Three weeks passed. The transformation at Faulkner Manor was nothing short of miraculous. A team of private tutors, nutritionists, and child psychologists worked with Hannah daily. Slowly, the haunted look in her dark eyes began to recede, replaced by a cautious, quiet curiosity. She learned to laugh—a small, shy sound that echoed through the cavernous marble hallways like wind chimes.
For Owen, having Hannah around changed the rhythm of his days. Instead of waking up at dawn to review quarterly reports, he found himself eating oatmeal at the grand dining table with a little girl who insisted on wearing a tiara she had found in the playroom.
However, peace in the Faulkner empire was short-lived.
Word had leaked to the board of directors that Owen Faulkner had informally taken in a street child and was preparing to draft a new will.
On a rainy Tuesday morning, Arthur Sterling, the senior vice president and Owen’s ruthless cousin by marriage, stormed into Owen’s private office without knocking.
“Have you lost your absolute mind, Owen?” Arthur demanded, slamming a thick manila folder onto the mahogany desk. “A street urchin? You’re naming a nameless stray as the primary beneficiary of the Faulkner trust?”
Owen didn't look up from the sketch Hannah had drawn of him that morning—a stick figure with a huge heart drawn in bright red crayon. He calmly set the paper down and looked at Arthur.
“Lower your voice, Arthur,” Owen said softly. “You are in my office, and you are speaking about my daughter.”
“She is not your daughter!” Arthur sneered, leaning over the desk. “She’s a prop! A desperate PR stunt because you can’t handle the fact that your heart is giving out! The board will never allow it. If you sign those adoption papers legally, we will invoke clause 42 of the corporate charter. We will declare you mentally unfit due to your failing health and strip you of your voting shares.”
Owen smiled—a cold, sharp smile that had terrified competitors for decades.
May you like
“Clause 42 requires a unanimous vote of the executive committee, Arthur,” Owen replied, standing up with deliberate slowness. “And as you well know, I own fifty-one percent of the voting stock. Try me.”
Arthur’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. He pointed a trembling finger at Owen. “You won't last six months, Owen. And when you're gone, that little girl will be thrown out onto the streets where you found her. We’ll make sure of it.”
