“Transfer the estate or there won't be a wedding!” she snapped. I declined. My son told me to beg for forgiveness or leave. I smiled, walked out, and days later, my phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Monday morning arrived with a crisp breeze. I hadn't stepped foot in the executive offices of Sterling & Co. in three years, having left the day-to-day operations to the board and, foolishly, given Mark a Vice President title as a placeholder.

When I walked through the glass doors at 8:00 AM wearing a tailored charcoal suit, the receptionist dropped her pen.

“Mrs. Sterling! We didn't expect you.”

“Good morning, Janet. Please let security know they’ll be needed on the fourth floor in about twenty minutes.”

I bypassed the elevator and took the private executive lift. When I reached the corner office—the one Mark had occupied—I found him already there, pacing furiously while Chloe sat on the leather sofa, biting her nails.

Mark froze when he saw me. “Mom! Thank God. Look, things got out of hand—”

“They did,” I agreed, setting my briefcase on the mahogany desk. “Which is why HR is currently processing your termination.”

Chloe jumped up. “You can’t fire him! He practically runs this place!”

I laughed. It wasn't a mean laugh, just a genuine reaction to absolute delusion. “Chloe, my son is a glorified mascot. He signs papers my legal team drafts and takes clients to golf courses my money pays for. He hasn’t drafted a successful proposal in three years.”

“Mom, please. We have no money. The townhouse deal fell through.” Mark’s arrogant mask was slipping, revealing the terrified little boy beneath.

Two large security guards stepped into the doorway.

“Mr. Sterling,” the head guard said, looking apologetic but firm. “We need your badge and company phone.”