Then he looked at Grace. As if sensing the tension, she let out a weak, rattling cough, her tiny chest heaving just to draw breath.

And a slow, dangerous smile spread across Preston’s face.

He shot out a hand and seized Marcus by the wrist, his grip vicious enough that the lawyer gasped, stopping him from taking the folder.

“Actually, Father,” Preston said softly, his voice carrying a new and lethal calm.

“There’s an ironclad clause in our original corporate charter you seem to have forgotten in your old age.”

“What are you talking about?” Conrad barked, his aristocratic facade slipping into genuine uncertainty.