“My last name is Carter,” I whispered.
Victoria’s eyes darted to the screen.
At first, she just looked annoyed. But as her eyes scanned the bold, black legal text at the top of the document, the annoyance faltered.
MASTER TRUST AGREEMENT: CARTER HOLDINGS. MAJORITY BENEFICIARY & SOLE HEIR: MALIK JAMES CARTER.
At the bottom of the page was the unmistakable, notarized signature of my grandfather, James Carter. The man who had quietly built a multi-billion dollar empire from nothing, while never seeking the spotlight.
I watched Victoria’s face change.
It was like watching a building collapse in slow motion.
The color completely drained from her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The smug, arrogant lines around her eyes suddenly tightened into sheer, unfiltered panic.
“No,” she breathed out. It was barely a whisper. “That… that’s a fake. That’s impossible.”
“Call him,” I said. I didn’t blink. “Call Richard Whitmore. Right now. Ask him who owns his company.”
The flight attendant, Marcus, was staring at the tablet, his jaw practically on the floor. The security guard had completely backed away, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
“Call him,” Diane echoed, stepping forward, her eyes locked onto Victoria like a predator. “Because my next call is to the board of directors to explain why their CEO’s wife is physically a*saulting the majority shareholder on a commercial flight.”
Victoria’s hands began to shake. Visibly, violently shake.
She fumbled blindly into her designer handbag. She pulled out her phone. She almost dropped it twice before managing to unlock it. She pressed the screen and brought the phone to her ear.
The plane was so quiet you could hear the dial tone bleeding through the earpiece.
Ring. Ring.
“Pick up,” Victoria muttered, her voice trembling. “Richard, please pick up.”
Click.
“Victoria, I’m in a meeting, what is it?” a deep, impatient male voice barked through the phone.
Victoria swallowed hard. She looked at me. Her eyes were wide, terrified pools of regret.
“Richard,” she stammered, her voice cracking. “Who… who owns the Carter Trust?”
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. The kind of pause that tells you the world has shifted off its axis.
“Why are you asking me about Carter Holdings right now?” Richard asked, his tone suddenly guarded, paranoid.
“Richard, just answer the question!” she cried out, tears welling in her eyes. “Is it a boy? Is it a 10-year-old boy named Malik?”