Chapter 11
SNICKERS
My ancestors peer down at me from the polished oak walls of the boardroom. I’m unsure whether they’re smiling or frowning—it’s impossible to see the shape of their lips under their thick beards.
Everything about this room reeks of duty—legacy carved into every corner, legacy staring back at me from the walls.
The twelve board members fan out around the table like birds of prey, their stone-carved faces giving nothing away.
At the head of the table sits Harrison Blake, the man who’s been running this show since before I was born.
My grandfather’s shadow might as well hang over his shoulder. But Blake doesn’t need a ghost to make him feel imposing.
He can do that just fine on his own.
Blake slides today’s New York Herald across the table without a word.
It lands in front of me like a grenade. And there it is: me. Shirtless, holding a microphone, mid-gyration on the Rockefeller Center stage.
My infamous grin frozen in print beneath a screaming caption: Greeting Card Heir Gone Wild.
“This ends now, Sheldon,” Blake finally says, his voice like gravel. “You’re lucky you’ve got Clare watching your ass. Without her quick thinking, this mess would already be trending into disaster.”
He gestures at the paper, his brow furrowing like a father reprimanding his wayward son.
“We’ve worked too hard to keep Woodward & Co tied to romance and dignity. Your drunken escapade is a slap across the face of everything this company stands for.”
“Look. I apologize. It was stupid of me to storm the stage and get that drunk in the first place. But I’m not agreeing to Clare’s plan. It’s insane. You’re all insane.”
“No. You’re the one who’s crazy. And you have until 9 a.m. tomorrow to agree to Clare’s plan. If not…”
“If not what?” I lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the table.
Blake steeples his fingers and stares me down, unflinching. “If not, we invoke the morality clause.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “That thing? Written in the 1960s? Please. It won’t hold up.”
“Oh, it holds up,” he says evenly, though his voice carries the weight of authority. “Every update, every corporate transition—it’s been reviewed. Revised. Cemented into Woodward & Co’s governance.”
“If Preston was here, he’d?—”
“Preston isn’t here,” Blake says sharply. “You don’t have your big brother to fix your mess anymore.”
I let my head fall back against the high leather chair, exhaling loudly through my nose.
“What’s that supposed to mean, exactly? You’re going to take away my trust fund? Cut off my allowance?”
Blake’s mouth tightens. “You’re not a boy, Sheldon. Stop pretending you don’t understand. This isn’t about cutting up your credit cards. It’s about everything. The trust fund. The penthouse. The seat at this table.”
He leans forward across the polished oak. His voice turns deliberate, measured. “Everything your family built over two centuries—gone. If you can’t respect that responsibility, you don’t deserve the throne.”
“Throne?” I repeat, bitterness curling in my throat. “This isn’t Camelot, Blake. And news flash—I never wanted any of this.”
The board members shift slightly in their seats, uneasy. Blake doesn’t flinch.
“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re all we have left.”
The words hit me harder than they should.
I shove away from the table, the chair scraping the floor with a grating sound. “This is bull?—”
“Think carefully before your next move.” Blake’s voice rises with just enough force to stop me mid-sentence.
“Because if you don’t step up by tomorrow morning, you’re out. And cut-off.”
He taps the edge of the newspaper, driving the point home like a final nail in my coffin.
I glance down at the headline but don’t read it this time. I know what it says.
The faces around the table blur as I shove past the chairs and storm toward the exit.
The boardroom doors slam behind me, the sound echoing down the long marble hallway.
The usual office buzz dims as I stride past workstations. Every employee suddenly becomes deeply invested in staring at their screens.
They’ve all seen the photos. Every single one of them.
From the corner of my eye, I catch someone whispering to their colleague. Great. The shirtless CEO. The drunk heir. Right now, I’m one shade away from a punchline.
I slow my steps as I approach another Wall of Woodwards, feeling the weight of the faces staring back.
It’s an entire timeline frozen in oil and glass: every stern eye, firm jaw, and tightly pinned cravat radiating a century of ambition.
My great-great-grandfather Theodore, whose portrait practically radiates stoicism, survived the Depression and kept the company alive.
My grandfather William, the modernizer, pulled ink-and-paper printers into the digital age.
And then there’s Dad.
A smooth operator with sharp eyes and a hundred-year vision, glaring down at me like I’ve singlehandedly put cracks in everything he built.
Preston’s spot remains conspicuously blank—the space reserved for the portrait that will never be painted, the legacy left unfulfilled.
I take a deep breath. First the drop in sales. Then the threat of the hostile takeover looming over our collective heads.
Now this mess.
A mess I admit was all my fault.
I look up at the spot where Preston’s portrait would have hung.
“I’ll do it for you, bro,” I say, nodding as if I’m looking him in the eyes. “I’ll do it for you.”