Megan was asking Beatrice what would happen after Sunday.
Beatrice turned her glass slowly between her fingers.
“He signs the restructuring packet.
After that, we stop asking permission for every little thing.”
Megan’s eyebrows lifted.
“And the company?”
“Not immediately.”
Beatrice sounded almost annoyed by the question.
“The company is the last piece.
Elijah would notice if anybody reached for that too quickly.”
My mouth went dry.
Barnes Regional Freight was not just an asset to me.
It was fifty years of my life.
I had started with one truck that overheated twice a week.
I had driven overnight routes myself because I could not afford another driver.
I knew which warehouse roof leaked during hard rain and which customers still remembered when I personally unloaded their pallets.
Beatrice knew that.
She also knew I had structured ownership carefully once the company became large enough to attract buyers.
Some shares sat inside my revocable family trust for estate planning.
Other control rights remained tied directly to me.
Years earlier, after watching a friend lose control of his business during a family dispute, I had insisted Marcus build an additional protection into any transfer involving voting authority.
Major control could not change merely because a document bearing my signature appeared.
My direct confirmation to independent counsel was required.
At the time, Beatrice had teased me for being paranoid.
Apparently, neither of us had thought about that conversation in years.
On the screen, Megan leaned toward her.
“What if his lawyer calls him?”
Beatrice’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
“He won’t interfere if Elijah tells him everything is fine.”
“And Elijah will?”
Beatrice smiled.
“I’ve been married to him forty years.”
She said it as if forty years were not a marriage.
As if they were training.
Megan lowered her voice.
“Terrence is going to lose his mind if he finds out we discussed this without him.”
Beatrice’s reply came instantly.
“Then don’t let him find out until there’s nothing left to argue about.”
That was when one piece of me stopped wondering whether my son was involved.
Terrence was being used too.
Maybe differently.
Maybe less cruelly.
But used.
Megan had married him two days earlier, and already she was discussing what information he was permitted to know.
The next section was worse because there was no laughter.
No champagne toast.
Just planning.
Beatrice described the packet she intended to place in front of me Sunday afternoon.
Some pages, she said, were routine estate updates.
Others would expand her authority and reorganize successor roles inside the trust.
She planned to present the entire stack as one housekeeping matter.
Megan asked whether she would receive anything immediately.
“Not directly,” Beatrice said.
“That would look greedy.”
Megan smiled.
