The battle of succession within the Mercier family is a story the media likes to drum up on slow news days, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. I have plenty of issues with my father, but they don’t include the way he runs GHV. I’m fully aware that he’s a powerhouse in our industry, and most days I’m still in awe of him.

He nods, seeming obliged to believe me.

“To protect our ownership stake, the Mercier family holding company will be turned into a joint-stock partnership. The majority of the share capital will be held by you. The remaining forty-nine percent will be held by Alexander, and for now, I will remain the managing general partner.”

None of this is all that shocking to me. He’s been grooming me to take my position at the helm of GHV since I was born. We’ve talked about this joint-stock partnership on multiple occasions, though now that it’s happening, it feels as if it will come with strings.

He straightens his already straight salad fork—ensuring it’s exactly aligned with his lunch plate—before continuing, “It’s my intention that the Mercier family will control and run GHV ad infinitum.”

“Of course. You have my word that should anything happen to you, I’ll continue to run the company, following your best practices and standards.”

“That’s no longer enough. I intend on safeguarding GHV’s future beyond you.”

I nearly smirk. “Trying to play master of the universe now?”

“I’m going to try my damned hardest, yes,” he says assertively.

“Which means what exactly?”

I half expect him to say he’s planning to clone himself. That seems more realistic than his actual answer.

“I think it’s beyond time for you to produce a legitimate heir. Preferably more than one.”

I laugh incredulously. His demand is utterly absurd.

“Have I missed something amusing?” he asks with a biting tone, looking briefly to Wilson for backup.

Smartly, Wilson keeps his mouth shut.

I lean back in my chair, far too cavalier for his taste, I’m sure. “I’m sorry to say, but you hold no jurisdiction over my life beyond work.”

He concedes this with a shrug then steeples his fingers on top of the table. “You should take my wishes as a strong suggestion for now. Perhaps in the future, I won’t be so lenient.”

“Is that a threat?”

I was wrong earlier—maybe this is The Godfather.

“To be certain,” my father confirms boldly just as the first course of the tasting menu is swept into the room on silver trays. No matter that I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

I’m in a foul mood when my driver pulls up in front of Morgan Fine Art Gallery, so much so that I don’t get out right away. I stare through the backseat window with a deep-set frown, taking in the gallery. It’s not very inviting, though that’s intentional. Part of the psychology of these contemporary galleries is in their design. They’re often composed of bare rooms with white walls. They’re meant to scare would-be patrons away, to create an elitist threshold most people don’t dare cross.