On my first day back, Nina placed my silver pen gently onto the boardroom table.
“Your grandfather would’ve loved this,” she whispered.
I ran my fingers across the engraving.
Arthur Tennant once told me a company is not inherited by the people wearing the best suits. It belongs to the people willing to protect everyone holding it up.
Later that week, someone discovered Martin’s old email and printed one sentence onto a paper taped inside the break room.
Get Clara out first.
Underneath it, the warehouse supervisor wrote in thick black marker:
Next time, check her maiden name.
