Taking Over

The days passed with a new routine, one that balanced the sweet moments Jane shared with Nick and the pressures of their separate lives. Nick's phone buzzed, the sharp vibration slicing through the calm. He glanced at the screen, his easy smile faltering the moment he saw the caller ID. His father.

Jane watched as his fingers tightened around the phone. He swallowed hard before answering, his voice carefully measured. "Dad?"

The voice on the other end was firm but laced with an urgency that made Nick's stomach drop. "I need you to attend the board meeting for me."

But everything changed when Nick's father suddenly called him on phone and informed that he is not well. Nick, usually calm and confident, was visibly shaken when he answered his dad's call. "I need you to attend the board meeting for me," his father said, urgency in his voice.

Nick's breath hitched. His father never asked for help—not like this.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with something Jane rarely heard from him—worry.

There was a pause. Then, his father's voice came again, a little slower this time. "I'm not well, Nick."

The words sent a cold shiver down his spine. His father—the man who had always been strong, was suddenly not well.

Jane, sensing the shift in him, reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. 

"I'll take care of it."

As he turned to leave, Jane's voice stopped him. "Nick, wait!"

He turned, finding her standing next to him, her fingers twisting together—a nervous habit he'd come to recognize. Concern flickered in her dark eyes.

Jane hesitated. "Your father wants you to attend the board meeting, doesn't he?"

Nick nodded. He didn't need to explain—she already understood. Attending that meeting meant more than just representing his father; it meant stepping into the spotlight, facing the world as the heir. There would be no turning back after this.

"I'll be busy for the next few weeks," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I probably won't have time to meet you." He exhaled, his fingers tightening at his sides. "Is that… okay with you?"

Jane's chest ached at his words. It wasn't just that he'd be busy—it was that he didn't want to be away from her, but he had no choice.

Forcing a small smile, she nodded. "Of course, Nick. I understand."

But something in her voice made his heart clench. He stepped closer, wanting to reassure her, to take away the uncertainty in her eyes.

"I don't want to stay away from you," he admitted, his voice raw. "But I have to do this."

Jane swallowed hard, searching his gaze. "I know," she whispered. "Just… don't lose yourself in there, okay?"

His lips curved into a sad smile. "I'll try."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Jane standing alone in the hallway, her heart sinking as she watched him disappear into a world she wasn't sure she'd ever truly belong to.

Nick stepped into the boardroom, the heavy mahogany doors closing behind him with a quiet finality. The air was thick with authority, the scent of polished wood and expensive cologne suffocating. Men in tailored suits turned toward him, their expressions unreadable—some curious, others skeptical. He knew their names, their reputations, their power. But they didn't know him.

His father's chair loomed at the head of the table, empty yet imposing. Nick swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and took his place.

A heavy silence stretched between them. He could feel their judgment, their whispered doubts hanging in the air like a storm about to break.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his body, and met their gazes head-on. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice even, controlled. But beneath his steady tone, a war raged inside him.

He hesitated for only a second before pressing forward. No fear. No hesitation.

"As you all know, my father is unwell." The words felt foreign on his tongue, heavier than he expected. "Until he recovers, I will be taking over as interim chairman."

A beat of silence. Then, the subtle shift in the room—stiff postures, exchanged glances, unspoken questions.

Nick kept his face unreadable, his hands steady on the table. He wasn't here to ask for approval. He was here to take what was already his.

A murmur rippled through the room, low and uncertain. The weight of doubt hung thick in the air.

Mr. Simon, his silver hair neatly combed back, leaned forward, fingers laced together. His sigh was slow, deliberate. "Nick," he said, his tone measured, laced with thinly veiled condescension. "We're all concerned for your father. But with all due respect, appointing an interim chairman is not a decision he makes alone." His gaze sharpened, voice dropping just enough to challenge. "You don't know how to run a real estate empire. And just because you are his son doesn't mean you can."

A flicker of agreement passed through the room—small nods, exchanged glances, the silent judgment pressing in.

Nick felt the weight of their skepticism, but he didn't let it crack his exterior. Instead, he inhaled slowly, rising from his chair with measured confidence.

"I understand your concerns," he said, his voice even, controlled. His eyes swept across the room, meeting each doubtful stare with unwavering certainty. "I may not have sat in this boardroom before, but I know this company. My father has prepared me for this moment, and I've done my own work long before stepping into this role."

Silence. Not a murmur, not a shift.

Nick's grip on the remote tightened, but his expression remained composed. With a click, the screen lit up, filling the room with cold, hard numbers. The shifting figures reflected off the polished table, flickering in the skeptical eyes of the directors.

"The company was thriving—until last year," Nick began, his voice measured, deliberate. The next slide flashed, a bold red outline marking a plot of the hotel on the city map. "This hotel with casino project—this location—is a problem."

A few directors exchanged uneasy glances.

Nick's tone sharpened. "It's near schools, colleges. The public is already opposing it, and it seems like you have not made any effort to ease their concerns. This project started with controversy and I can see it will become a problem. 

Paul scoffed, adjusting his tie with a smirk. "Nick, we chose this location after years of research. Hotels exist near schools all over the city. The approvals are in place. There's no stopping this now."

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

Nick didn't blink. Instead, he tapped the remote again. The numbers shifted—polls, public sentiment reports, social media trends, all pointing to the same conclusion.

"Revenue projections mean nothing if the public turns against us," Nick countered. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Parents, educators, even local businesses—they're all rallying against this. Lawsuits, protests, reputational damage. This isn't just a simple problem."

Silence.

Across the table, Mr. Simon's fingers drummed slowly, a calculated rhythm against the wood. His narrowed gaze met Nick's, heavy with challenge. "You're still young, son," he said, voice laced with quiet condescension. "You don't know anything. Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Nick didn't waver. He held Mr. Simon's stare, his jaw tightening just enough to show he wasn't backing down.

"I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, the directors exchanging uncertain glances. Some shifted in their seats, others frowned, processing Nick's words.

Nick exhaled slowly, then clicked the projector remote. The screen illuminated with a spreadsheet—rows of numbers stretching across it. The official financial reports they had been shown… and then the real ones. The discrepancies were glaring, the losses undeniable.

Mr. Simon's expression darkened, his grip tightening on the armrests of his chair. "How did you get this information?" he asked, his voice low, controlled—but beneath it, there was something else. A flicker of unease.

Nick's jaw tightened. "I've been involved in this company for years," he said. "Something didn't add up, so I looked deeper."

Silence settled over the room like a thick fog.

Nick pressed another button. The screen changed. This time, not numbers—but images.

Photographs.

The color drained from Mr. Simon's face.

The first image showed him shaking hands with a man known to law enforcement—someone with deep ties to criminal networks. The next, a private meeting in a dimly lit restaurant, stacks of cash visible in the background. Then came the bank statements—accounts hidden offshore, millions flowing in and out in carefully disguised transactions.

A wave of tension swept through the boardroom. Some directors leaned forward, staring at the evidence in stunned silence. Others turned toward Mr. Simon, their expressions unreadable.

The air felt thick, suffocating.

Then—

A loud screech as Mr. Simon shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently against the polished floor. His face flushed a deep red, veins visible on his forehead.

"You dare accuse me?" His voice was sharp, edged with fury. His fists clenched at his sides. "This is outrageous!"

Nick didn't move. Didn't flinch.

"I'm not accusing you," he said calmly. "I'm presenting facts."

Another click. More evidence.

Transaction records. Documents tying him to the unauthorized transfer of fifty million dollars. The offshore account. The missing funds.

The weight of the truth pressed down on the room.

A single bead of sweat rolled down Mr. Simon's temple. His breathing had become heavier, his chest rising and falling in fear. His hands trembled slightly at his sides.

The other directors remained silent. Their gazes flicked between Nick and Mr. Simon, waiting. Watching.

Mr. Simon's lips parted as if to explain, to justify, but no words came. There was no excuse that could erase the truth now laid bare before them.

He had been exposed.

And there was no turning back now.

Paul's face twisted in disbelief as he stared at the screen, at the damning evidence laid out for everyone to see. He turned to his father, his voice low but sharp.

"This can't be true," he muttered, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His breath came in short.

Nick remained silent, watching the scene unfold.

Mr. Simon said nothing. He sat frozen in his chair, his usually confident demeanor shattered. His hands gripped the table, knuckles white, but he didn't deny it. He couldn't.

Paul's disbelief turned to anger. He slammed his hands against the table, his chair scraping back violently as he stood.

"You colluded with gangsters?" His voice trembled, not just with fury but with something deeper—betrayal. "You took their money? Do you have any idea what this means?"

Mr. Simon's mouth opened, but no words came. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze darting around the room, searching for an escape from the walls that were closing in.

"This only implies one thing," Paul continued, his voice rising. "Once the casino is built, they'll control it. We'll have no say in how it's run. You didn't just invest in a project—you handed them the keys!"

Murmurs erupted around the boardroom. The directors, who had been silent a moment ago, now spoke in angry whispers.

Nick watched as realization dawned on them—how deep this scandal ran, how much was truly at stake.

"Mr. Simon, is this true?" One of the senior directors spoke up, his voice laced with disbelief and fury. "Did you really go behind our backs and strike a deal with criminals?"

Mr. Simon's face was drenched in sweat. He finally spoke, but his voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. "I—I did what I had to do for the company."

Paul let out a bitter laugh. "For the company?" His eyes burned with fury. "I wanted to build this hotel to enhance our brand, to make us stronger. Not to ruin everything we've worked for!" He took a deep breath, shaking his head in disgust. "You've disappointed me more than I can ever express."

More voices joined in.

"You betrayed us!"

"You misled the entire company!"

"This is corruption at its worst!"

The anger in the room swelled, directors standing from their seats, some shaking their heads in disappointment, others glaring at Mr. Simon with outright rage.

Mr. Simon slumped lower into his chair, his eyes darting between the furious faces around him. His once towering presence had crumbled. His shoulders sagged, and for the first time, he looked small—like a man drowning in the mess he had created.

Paul's breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling. He turned away from his father, clenching his jaw, his hands trembling at his sides.

Nick, watching the scene, exhaled slowly.

He had come to fix the company's problems.

Finally, Mr. Simon, who had been slumped in his chair, let out a shaky breath and lifted his gaze.

His voice, once filled with authority, now carried only bitterness. "I wanted my son to take over this company," he murmured, his tone laced with regret. His eyes flickered toward Paul, seeking something—understanding, perhaps, or forgiveness. "I thought—" He hesitated, his lips pressing together as if the words burned his tongue. "I thought I was helping you. I didn't mean to destroy the company. I just wanted what was best for you."

Paul's expression twisted, his face a storm of emotions. Disbelief. Anger. Pain. He clenched his fists at his sides, his breathing uneven. "You thought ruining our reputation would help me?" His voice rose, shaking with betrayal. "You destroyed everything! You didn't just put the company at risk—you put my entire future at risk!"

Mr. Simon opened his mouth, but no words came out. His shoulders sagged further, as if the weight of his mistakes had finally crushed him.

The other directors, who had been watching the exchange in stunned silence, finally erupted.

"You both conspired together!" one of them snapped.

"This isn't just one person's mistake!" another added.

Angry voices filled the room, each accusation sharper than the last. The directors, once wary of speaking against Mr. Simon, now let their rage spill out.

Paul flinched under their scrutiny. For years, he had worked to build his reputation in the company, and now, because of his father, it was crumbling before his eyes. He turned to Nick, his shoulders rigid, his head slightly bowed.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm ashamed of what's happened. But what they're saying about me isn't true." He lifted his gaze, searching Nick's face for any sign of belief. "I've always been loyal to the company." He swallowed hard before adding, "I'll resign if that's what it takes."

The room fell silent again.

Nick studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he spoke.

"Do the other directors trust you now?" His voice was steady, unwavering.

A few directors exchanged glances before murmuring in agreement.

Paul exhaled slightly, his tense posture easing just a little. Hope flickered in his eyes.

Nick nodded, his face serious. "Then I have to say," he began, glancing around the room, making sure every director heard him clearly, "Paul isn't responsible for this."

A few gasps broke the silence. Paul's brows furrowed in confusion.

Nick continued, his voice calm but firm. "When I was investigating, I wasn't sure if Paul was involved. But I found proof that he had no idea what his father was doing. He's innocent."

He reached into the folder on the table, pulling out a document. He slid it across to Paul.

Paul hesitated before picking it up, his eyes scanning the contents. His lips parted slightly as realization dawned on him. The document contained undeniable evidence—proof that the offshore accounts, the criminal dealings, the hidden transactions, had all been orchestrated solely by his father.

The directors murmured amongst themselves again, their anger shifting. They had been quick to assume Paul's involvement, but now, the truth was in front of them.

Paul took a slow breath, then turned to his father. This time, there was no hesitation in his voice. Only resolve.

"You need to give back the money to the company," he demanded, his tone cutting through the tension. "Give up your shares and leave the company. You've ruined everything with your greed."

Mr. Simon's face twisted in anger. His jaw clenched, his eyes dark with resentment. For a moment, it seemed like he wanted to fight back, to defend himself, to deny the truth.

But he couldn't.

He had lost.

Without another word, he stood from his chair. His movements were slow, almost reluctant, as if he were forcing himself to accept his fate. He cast one last glance around the room, his gaze lingering on Paul.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

The heavy oak doors shut behind him with a dull thud, sealing his fate.

For the first time in a long time, the boardroom fell completely silent.