I watched him die slowly, watched the chemo steal his energy, watched him get thinner and weaker and more desperate to finish what he’d started. He’d wanted to leave me something solid, something that would last, something I could build on.
Instead, he’d left me a company already starting to fracture.
The board members he’d trusted—the ones who’d helped him expand—had started making moves before he was even on the ground. Quietly consolidating power, forming alliances, positioning themselves to take over if I failed.
They smiled at me across the conference table, and I could see it in their eyes—they were waiting for me to fail.
“We understand this is a difficult transition,” Richard Moss said. He was the oldest board member, he had helped my father close his first major deal. “But the company requires strong leadership and decisive action.”
What he meant was:prove you can do this or we’ll replace you.
I’d been working for the company since college, started in acquisitions, learned the business from the ground up the way my father had insisted. But knowing how to evaluate a property wasn’t the same as running a multimillion-dollar firm, and being the founder’s son didn’t automatically make me qualified to lead.
“I understand,” I said, keeping my voice steady even though my hands were sweating. “I’m ready.”
“Are you?” Margaret Hollander leaned forward, eyes sharp. She’d joined the board five years ago, brought in for her financial expertise, and my father had trusted her completely. “Because the market isn’t going to wait for you to figure things out. We need to move forward aggressively or we’ll lose ground to competitors.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you’ll want to review the Sunset Park proposal.” Richard slid a folder across the table. “Your father was considering it before he got sick. It’s a solid opportunity with high yield and low risk.”
I opened the folder and read through the proposal. A residential building in Brooklyn, prime location, fifty-two unitscurrently occupied. The purchase price was reasonable and profit margins looked excellent.
“The current tenants?” I asked.
“Legal has already reviewed everything.” Richard’s tone made it clear this was a formality, not a question that required real consideration. “It’s clean with no complications.”
I looked at the numbers again. The building was old and needed work, but the location made it valuable. We could renovate, convert to luxury condos, triple the investment easily.
My father would have approved. That thought alone felt like permission. This was exactly the kind of project he’d built the company on—finding undervalued properties and making them profitable.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Richard smiled. “We’re looking forward to seeing what you can do.”
I worked on that proposal for three weeks, ran every number twice, reviewed every legal document, and made sure there wasn’t a single weakness the board could exploit.
I barely slept—lived on coffee and takeout. Stayed at the office until two in the morning going over contracts and zoning laws and profit projections.
My father’s office still smelled like him—coffee and the cologne he’d worn for thirty years. Some nights I’d sit in his chair and try to channel whatever it was that had made him so good at this, that had made people trust him and follow him and build something with him.
I was terrified I’d lose it all—that everything he’d built would fall apart under my leadership, that his legacy would die with him.
When I presented the proposal, I sounded confident and certain—like I knew exactly what I was doing.
The board approved it unanimously.
“Well done,” Richard said afterward. “Your father would be proud.”
I wanted to believe that, wanted to think I was honoring his legacy and proving I could carry forward what he’d built.
The acquisition went through in six weeks. We purchased the building through a shell company, filed all the necessary paperwork, sent out notices to tenants.
I reviewed everything from my office—progress reports, contractor estimates, legal filings. Everything looked good on paper—clean, efficient, unquestioned.
I never visited the building. Never met the tenants. Never saw the faces of the people whose lives my project was unraveling.
They were numbers to me—units to clear, obstacles to manage within legal parameters.
