The sunlight barely touched the edges of the tall skyscraper as Mike Richard stepped out of his sleek black Bentley, the weight of the morning still heavy on his shoulders. He hadn’t spoken a word during the entire ride to Richie’s International Headquarters. His mind remained stuck on the venom his mother had spat before he left—the threats, the curses, and that cruel slap that had landed on Cynthia’s face like a storm.

His jaw clenched as he marched past the revolving glass doors of the building, his steps echoing through the marble-floored lobby. Employees turned and greeted him with polite nods, some too afraid to maintain eye contact. They’d...