“I brought the transition documents,” he said, sliding a folder across the marble. “Just preliminary. For when you’re ready.”
“When I’m dead, you mean.”
“Sir, please.”
I waved him toward the hallway. “Take the call I can hear buzzing in your pocket. I need a minute.”
He stepped out, and I followed him at a distance, slow on my cane, soft on the rug.
His voice carried through the open door of the study.
That was when the idea took shape. Not a will. Not a board vote. A test.
“No, no, the old man’s fading fast. Walking bag of money, basically. Six months max, and the board is mine.”
I stood very still in the hallway.
I had built an empire that fed families across six states, and the man I trusted most called me a walking bag of money.
Derek left an hour later with a warm handshake and a promise to visit again next week.
“There has to be one,” I said out loud, to no one. “One person who would help a stranger with nothing to gain.”
That was when the idea took shape. Not a will. Not a board vote. A test.
The scissors hacked at my silver hair until it stood up in wild tufts.
I would find that person myself. Whoever helped a useless old man in a torn coat would inherit everything I had built.
The man in the glass still wore a custom shirt and combed silver hair. Still looked like money.
I picked up the scissors.
“The billionaire has to disappear,” I whispered, “before the truth can appear.”
The scissors hacked at my silver hair until it stood up in wild tufts. I glued on a ragged beard, pulled on torn clothes that smelled of basement, and rubbed dirt into the creases around my eyes.
Staring back at me was someone people never stopped to save.
Then I poured spoiled milk down the front of my coat.
