Rain fell steadily over Manhattan.
Rows of black umbrellas surrounded the gravesite.
Executives.
Politicians.
Investors.
Lawyers.
Enough money stood in one place to solve world hunger several times over.
Naturally, they were attending a funeral instead.
At the center of the gathering stood Chris Sterling.
His suit was a flawless, tailored black, and his posture was perfectly composed.
His mother’s makeup kit had done excellent work after a few hours spent reading tutorials online.
A little discoloration beneath the eyes, a slight redness around the eyelids—just enough to suggest profound grief without hinting at a drug problem.
The result was convincing.
To everyone present, Chris looked exactly like a teenager who had lost both parents.
Poor kid.
That was what they were all thinking.
Chris resisted the urge to smirk.
People saw precisely what they expected to see.
A black suit, a funeral, and a dead billionaire couple; therefore, the son must be devastated.
Human beings were remarkably easy to manipulate.
The funniest part?
This was probably the most relaxed Chris had felt since arriving in Marvel.
The system balance had fallen to $274.95 million after purchasing Diablo, but that was hardly a problem.
Most of his wealth wasn’t even inside the framework yet.
He still controlled well over a billion dollars in hidden assets, a trust fund worth more than most countries’ GDPs, and sixty-five percent of a forty-billion-dollar empire waiting to unlock in three weeks.
Objectively speaking, things were going pretty well.
His gaze shifted toward the twin caskets.
Mark Sterling.
Josephine Sterling.
The original Chris probably would have had complicated feelings.
The current Chris mostly had questions.
Specifically, how two billionaires managed to die in a private jet.
At this point, private jets were beginning to look less like transportation and more like an expensive form of Russian roulette.
A hand settled on Chris’s shoulder.
He turned.
Arthur Graves stood beside him beneath a black umbrella.
The family lawyer looked exactly as he always did—immaculate suit, perfect posture, and a professional expression.
“My condolences, Chris,” Arthur said.
Chris nodded politely.
“Thank you.”
Internally, he added: You’re probably wondering if the board is billing this funeral as a business expense.
Arthur hesitated for a moment before stepping aside.
A woman stood beside him.
She looked to be in her early forties, with blonde hair pinned neatly behind her head, a dark gray overcoat, and calm blue eyes.
She carried the sharp demeanor of someone who looked entirely comfortable arguing with billionaires.
“Ms. Helen Stacy,” Arthur said.
Chris offered his hand, and she shook it firmly.
“My condolences.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Arthur adjusted his glasses.
“Ms. Stacy is the trustee of your inheritance trust.”
That got Chris’s attention.
Trustee.
Interesting.
Helen seemed to notice, and a faint smile touched her lips.
“Your mother appointed me three years ago.”
Chris raised an eyebrow.
“My mother?”
Helen nodded.
“She believed the trust should remain completely independent from the company.”
Arthur looked mildly annoyed.
“Josephine never trusted corporate governance.”
“Josephine didn’t trust corporate lawyers,” Helen corrected.
For the first time, Chris almost smiled.
That sounded far more believable.
Arthur sighed.
“Your mother was concerned that Sterling Global’s interests and your interests might not always align.”
Smart move.
Possibly the smartest thing she’d done for him.
Helen continued.
“The trust is separate from Sterling Global. Separate from the board. And separate from Arthur.”
Arthur looked even less pleased.
Chris filed that information away immediately.
If Arthur wasn’t the trustee, then Arthur didn’t control the trust, which meant he probably didn’t know everything about it either.
Very interesting. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Helen glanced toward the caskets.
“Your mother cared about many things.” Her expression softened slightly.
“But she was always very serious when the conversation involved your future.”
For a brief moment, Chris remained silent.
Then he nodded politely.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Helen returned the nod.
“Good.”
The conversation ended there.
No dramatic revelations, no legal lectures—just a trustee quietly reminding him that his mother had prepared for possibilities most people never considered.
Arthur cleared his throat quietly as Helen stepped back.
“The board members are here.”
Of course they were.
Chris slowly looked across the cemetery.
There they stood, the vultures, practicing their perfectly rehearsed expressions of grief.
Most of them looked more upset about Sterling Global’s stock price than the actual deaths.
Chris watched one of the board members discreetly check his phone.
The man couldn’t even wait until the burial was finished before monitoring the market.
Then Chris noticed someone unexpected.
He was a bald corporate shark in an expensive suit, carrying a warm, practiced smile.
Obadiah Stane.
Vice Chairman of Stark Industries.
Future Iron Monger.
Future murderer.
Present-day corporate shark.
Apparently, billionaire funerals counted as networking events.
It explained why Stark Industries had a representative present.
As if sensing the attention, Obadiah turned.
Their eyes met.
The older man smiled politely and approached.
“Mr. Sterling.”
Chris extended his hand.
“Mr. Stane.”
Obadiah shook it firmly.
“My deepest condolences.”
“Thank you.”
A nearby executive quickly stepped in.
“Chris, Mr. Stane and your father worked together for years. Sterling Global supplied several strategic resources to Stark Industries.”
That made sense.
Titanium, rare earth elements, industrial alloys—the sort of materials governments became nervous about, and Stark Industries consumed in enormous amounts.
“Your father was an exceptional businessman,” Obadiah said.
Chris nodded politely.
“That’s what people keep telling me.”
For some reason, that made Obadiah laugh.
The older man studied him for a moment, and Chris studied him right back, each evaluating the other without learning very much.
Eventually, Obadiah stepped away.
The funeral continued.
The priest spoke.
Chris listened for approximately eight seconds before his attention drifted.
His newly upgraded cognitive processor had moved on to calculating how much money was currently standing in this cemetery, and the answer was deeply disturbing.
A few minutes later, Arthur approached carrying a folded sheet of paper.
“The speech.”
Chris accepted it, read the first line, then folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket.
Arthur frowned, but the priest was already stepping away from the podium.
The crowd shifted, waiting.
Chris walked forward.
Rain tapped softly against hundreds of umbrellas as the cemetery became completely silent.
“My father once told me that a person’s worth isn’t measured by what they inherit,” Chris began, ensuring his voice carried over the wind.
“It’s measured by what they build.”
Every eye focused on him.
“My parents continued the legacy my grandfather built, and I intend to honor the work they dedicated their lives to.” He glanced toward the twin caskets.
“They weren’t perfect.”
Understatement of the century.
“But they worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known,” Chris continued calmly, letting the words settle.
“They expected a lot from the people around them—usually more than those people wanted to give. And they never accepted excuses. Trust me.”
A few people laughed quietly.
Good.
That was intentional.
“But everything they built came from believing responsibility matters. My father spent his entire life building Sterling Global Resources.” Chris looked toward the distant Manhattan skyline.
“And whether I agreed with him or not, he believed family should protect what previous generations created.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Chris wasn’t following the prepared speech.
Not even remotely.
“I was scheduled to begin my first year at Columbia this fall,” Chris said.
Several board members visibly relaxed.
That was the plan everyone knew—university, a few years out of the spotlight, a harmless heir occupied with textbooks.
“I will not be attending.”
Heads snapped upward.
Board members exchanged alarmed looks.
Obadiah Stane’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did.
“Instead, I will begin working immediately,” Chris continued smoothly over the rising murmurs.
“I intend to learn every aspect of Sterling Global Resources. It was my father’s wish that I eventually assume responsibility for what previous generations built. I owe him that much.”
He stepped away from the podium without a dramatic ending or a single tear.
The reaction was immediate.
Executives began whispering, and board members looked like they had just been informed their retirement plans were on fire.
They had expected a grieving child.
Instead, they had found an heir.
And in exactly three weeks, that heir would own them.
As the funeral slowly came to an end, Chris caught Arthur staring at him.
The lawyer already knew what was coming—a very expensive fight.
Chris smiled faintly.
Arthur did not smile back.
Around them, mourners began drifting toward waiting cars.
Executives formed small groups.
Investors exchanged business cards.
Politicians shook hands.
The funeral was over.
The negotiations had already begun.
Chris was considering a strategic retreat when a familiar voice stopped him.
He turned.
Helen Stacy stood a few feet away.
Arthur was nowhere in sight.
“There are several matters concerning your mother’s estate that require your attention,” she said.
“Under the terms of the trust and your mother’s will, we’re required to meet.”
That got Chris’s attention.
The trustee had gone from polite funeral attendee to legal representative in less than a sentence.
Chris raised an eyebrow.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“You make appointments the same way you give orders.”
A faint smile appeared on her face.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” She reached into her purse and handed him a business card.
Helen Stacy.
Attorney at Law.
Direct Number.
Private Number.
Interesting.
Most lawyers didn’t hand out private numbers.
Then again, most lawyers weren’t trustees of multi-billion-dollar inheritances.
Chris slipped the card into his pocket.
Helen started to leave before pausing once more.
“One piece of advice, Mr. Sterling.”
Chris looked at her.
“Yes?”
Helen glanced toward a cluster of board members watching from across the cemetery.
“Don’t let them convince you they’re on your side.”
Chris followed her gaze.
Richard Hall quickly looked away.
Arthur Graves, who had reemerged near the vehicles, pretended not to notice.
A smile touched Chris’s lips.
“They already failed.”
For the first time, Helen genuinely smiled.
Then she walked away.
Chris watched her leave.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Arthur knew a trust existed, but Helen controlled it.
Those were two very different things.
Three weeks.
In three weeks, everything would change.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Chris felt like he was finally seeing the entire board.
The game had only just begun.
Somewhere beneath the shade of a distant oak tree, a tall man in a black suit watched everything in complete silence.
Golden eyes never left Chris.
Diablo stood beneath the oak tree with his hands folded behind his back.
Motionless.
Like a predator waiting for permission.
The first move had been made.
See you in the next chapter!