I had signed those trust documents at a kitchen table in 1998, before Aaron and I had even moved into the Greenwich house.

My father had asked me not to mention it.

I had kept that promise so long I had nearly forgotten the weight of it myself.

“He signs the annual reports,” Marcus said.

“It makes him look like an owner.

But ownership is a different page of the book.”

I tapped my ring on the edge of his desk.

“Show me the patents.”