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Two days later, I sat in a skyscraper conference room fifty stories above downtown Chicago. The city stretched below like a sea of glass and light.
“Before we proceed,” he said, “you need to understand the stipulation in your uncle’s will.”
I nodded slowly, my heart thudding in my chest.
“Mr. Whitmore specified that you must act as CEO of Whitmore Industries for one full year,” David explained. “You cannot sell or transfer your shares. After twelve consecutive months without scandal or financial collapse, the inheritance will be fully yours.”
I could barely process his words. “I’m an art teacher,” I whispered. “I can’t run a corporation.”
“Your uncle was aware,” he said kindly. “He believed your honesty—and your lack of greed—could restore the company’s integrity.”
I let out a short, shaky laugh. “So this is a test from beyond the grave.”
David smiled faintly. “He also left you this.” He handed me a letter in my uncle’s careful handwriting.
Emma,
I built an empire, but lost my conscience along the way.
You still have yours.
Lead with heart, and perhaps you’ll save what I couldn’t.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll honor his wish.”
