“You will marry her.” Silas Dominguez’s cane hit the desk with a sound that shut the room down.
“No,” Miles said.
Silas did not blink. “You will sign the prenuptial and the transfer clause. You will make her publicly yours. You will not bring scandal to this name.”
Miles laughed once, low. “You think you can order my life with threats and signatures, grandfather?”
Silas pushed a leather folder toward Miles. “I think I own enough votes to make the board follow whatever I sign. If you refuse, I will invoke Clause Twelve-B. The trust dissolves. Your shares go to the foundation. You lose Dominguez control.”
Silas’s voice was flat. Fidel, standing by the doorway, did not move.
Journee kept her hands folded in her lap. She said nothing. She wore a simple dress and an expression that made it clear she was listening, not pleading.
Miles leaned forward until the veins in his jaw showed. “You can strip me of paper,” he said. “You can try to play king-maker. But you cannot force me to—”
Silas cut him off with a sudden movement. He rose, cane tapping, and for a moment he was smaller than the man in the suit but sharper. He put one hand on the folder, opened it, and turned a page. A copy, stamped and notarized, sat where Miles could read the clause.
“You will also make her appear loyal to this family. No interviews, no scandals. We will control the
