Reagan’s POV
The conference room fell silent the moment Father walked in.
More than twenty executives were already on their feet, but whatever composure they’d managed to hold onto disappeared the instant his eyes swept across the room. He didn’t ask what had happened. He didn’t need to. One glance at the untouched reports, the strained expressions, and Wallace’s cigar sitting cold in the ashtray was enough.
Then his gaze landed on me.
The faintest twitch touched the corner of his mouth.
"...Looks like I’ve interrupted something."
Nobody answered.
He walked to the head of the table and held out his hand. "The report."
The logistics director hurried forward and placed the folder into it. Father opened it without another word, and the room slipped into complete silence. He read every page carefully, never rushing, never skimming. The longer it took, the more uncomfortable everyone became. No one dared speak. Even Wallace, who’d been so confident a few minutes earlier, sat quietly watching him.
After what felt like forever, Father looked up.
"The Shanghai route."
The logistics director straightened immediately. "Yes, sir?"
"How long?"
"...Five days."
"One way?"
"Yes."
"So a round trip takes ten."
"...Correct."
Father lowered his eyes to the report again. "Interesting."
He tapped one line with a finger.
"This vessel supposedly completed two round trips in eleven days."
The director forced a smile. "That’s... correct."
Father looked up.
"No."
One word.
Softly spoken.
Enough to drain the color from the man’s face.
He turned another page. "Explain how your crew crossed the ocean twice, unloaded cargo, refueled, reloaded, passed customs inspections and departed again... all within eleven days."
The director opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
"I..."
He tugged at his tie.
"There may have been a clerical—"
Father raised one finger.
The excuse died before it left his lips.
"I asked for an explanation."
Not an excuse.
The man’s shoulders sagged.
"...I don’t have one."
"I know."
Father closed the report and reached for another. "Insurance payouts doubled." He flipped a page. "Fuel expenses dropped despite longer routes." Another page. "Maintenance costs disappeared entirely."
He looked around the table.
"Remarkable."
Nobody mistook that for praise.
"I’ve spent thirty years building this company," he said quietly. "You’ve spent six months trying to rob it."
The director’s breathing became uneven.
"I can explain—"
"No."
Again.
One calm word.
Far more frightening than shouting.
Father turned toward accounting.
"Bring me the original books."
Nobody moved.
His expression didn’t change.
"I won’t repeat myself."
That was all it took.
The chief accountant practically stumbled over himself getting to the filing cabinets. Within moments several heavy ledgers were placed on the table. Father opened the first one and compared it to the report Reagan had challenged.
The difference was obvious.
Entire figures had been rewritten.
Expenses shifted.
Profits inflated.
Payments hidden beneath different departments.
He quietly shut the ledger.
"Who else?"
The logistics director stared at the table.
Father didn’t raise his voice.
"I’m asking one question."
"...Who else?"
The man’s shoulders finally collapsed.
"Accounting."
A secretary’s fingers froze over her keyboard.
"Continue."
"...Purchasing."
Another pause.
"...Shipping."
Every answer pulled another face around the room a shade paler.
No one interrupted him.
No one denied it.
Because there was nothing left to deny.
Father closed the final ledger and finally looked at me.
"My son found this."
His voice remained perfectly level.
"He noticed discrepancies in under ten minutes."
His gaze drifted slowly across the room.
"You’ve had six months."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Wallace leaned forward at last, clearing his throat.
"Devon..."
Father turned his head just enough to acknowledge he’d spoken.
"I believe," he said evenly, "I was speaking."
Wallace’s jaw tightened.
"...Of course."
Father looked back at the rest of the room.
"Effective immediately, every account connected to the eastern division is frozen. Accounting access is revoked. Purchasing records are to be seized, and every financial document produced during the last six months will undergo a full audit."
The secretary typed so quickly her fingers blurred.
Nobody argued.
Nobody even attempted to.
They all knew what an internal audit under Devon Ashford actually meant.
Nobody argued.
Nobody even attempted to.
They all knew what an internal audit under Devon Ashford actually meant.
Father closed the ledgers and pushed them aside as though they were nothing more than yesterday’s newspaper.
"The meeting is over."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then he looked up.
"I said the meeting is over."
Chairs scraped back almost at once. Executives hurried toward the doors without a word, eager to put as much distance between themselves and that table as possible. The room emptied quickly until only one man remained seated.
Wallace.
He rose at his own pace, picked up his cigar, and adjusted his jacket as though the meeting had gone exactly as he’d expected.
"Mr. Wallace."
His footsteps stopped.
Father still hadn’t looked at him.
"You’ve been with this company a long time."
"I have."
"Long enough to know the difference between loyalty and convenience."
Wallace’s expression barely changed.
"I had nothing to do with those reports."
"I didn’t say you did."
That caught him off guard.
Father finally turned to face him.
"But you defended the people behind them before you knew whether they were innocent. That tells me all I need to know."
For the first time since the meeting began, Wallace didn’t have a response ready.
After a long silence, he gave a slow nod.
"I understand."
Father held his gaze.
"No."
His voice remained calm.
"You will."
Wallace left without another word.
The heavy doors closed behind him, leaving only Father and me inside the conference room. For several moments, neither of us spoke. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, clasping his hands behind his back while traffic crawled through the streets far below.
"You lost your temper."
It wasn’t an accusation.
Just a fact.
I frowned.
"No."
"You nearly did."
I said nothing.
He remained facing the window.
"When Wallace called you ’the boss’s boy’..." He paused. "You stopped thinking about the reports."
My jaw tightened.
"He was trying to undermine me."
"And he succeeded."
The words landed harder than I expected.
"You were right. You found the fraud. But from that moment on, the meeting wasn’t about missing money anymore." He turned to face me. "It became about proving yourself."
I hated that he was right.
Wallace hadn’t defended the numbers.
He’d challenged me.
And I’d taken the bait.
Father picked up the report and handed it back to me.
"Never let a room know they’ve reached you."
I looked down at the folder.
"The moment people know what angers you, they’ll stop fighting your arguments and start provoking your emotions."
He adjusted the cuffs of his suit, every movement calm and deliberate.
"You have good instincts, Reagan. Better than most men twice your age."
For a brief second, I thought that was the closest thing to praise I’d ever get.
Then he continued.
"But instincts don’t build empires."
Silence stretched between us.
"They’re only useful if you know when to ignore them."
He started toward the door before stopping beside me.
"Today, you proved you can find a problem."
His eyes met mine.
"The next step is learning how to solve it without letting anyone see you bleed."
With that, he walked out.
The room suddenly felt much larger.
I stood there staring at the empty chair Wallace had occupied only minutes ago.
*"The boss’s boy."*
The words echoed through my head again.
He hadn’t questioned my intelligence.
He’d questioned my place.
To him, I wasn’t sitting at that table because I’d earned it.
I was there because I happened to be Devon Ashford’s son.
A sharp crack broke the silence.
I looked down.
The pen in my hand had snapped clean in two.
...
The drive home was unusually quiet.
Normally, I’d spend the trip reviewing reports or answering emails, but the folder remained untouched on the seat beside me. Outside, the city lights blurred past the tinted windows while my driver kept his attention fixed on the road, wise enough not to start a conversation.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
It didn’t help.
*"You’re still just the boss’s boy."*
The words returned again.
And again.
Father had been right.
I’d let Wallace drag me into a fight that had nothing to do with the reports. I’d won the argument and still given him exactly what he wanted.
That irritated me more than the insult itself.
The car slowed as the estate gates opened.
A few moments later, it rolled to a stop beneath the front entrance.
The driver stepped out first and opened my door.
"We’re home, sir."
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