“I need you to sign a standard administrative waiver for the family trust,” he said, setting the heavy crystal glass down with a sharp click. “It is a minor formality to clear up the title on the suburban property.”
He slid a single sheet of paper across the table, his gold-plated pen resting on top of the signature line. The pen was old, its gold plating worn thin near the nib, a gift from my father when Adrian first joined the firm.
I picked up the document, my eyes scanning the dense legal paragraphs with the speed of someone who had spent ten years reviewing corporate structures. It was not a property waiver; it was an amendment that would grant the chief executive sole operational control over the trust assets.
“This document alters the distribution schedule established by my father,” I said, placing the pen back on the table. “I cannot sign an amendment of this scope without a full accounting of the trust’s current holdings.”
Adrian took a slow sip of his scotch, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me over the rim of the glass. “The board is ratifying my appointment at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, Claire.”
