The rain that fell over the Mitchell estate on the day of Richard’s funeral was not a gentle mist but a heavy, rhythmic pounding that seemed to signal the end of an era. Richard Mitchell had been a titan of industry, a man who built a global logistics empire from a single folding table and a relentless work ethic. Hundreds of people—from high-powered CEOs to the dockworkers who loaded his ships—stood huddled under a sea of black umbrellas to pay their respects. They all looked toward the front row, expecting to see the Mitchell dynasty standing united in grief.
Instead, they saw Eleanor Mitchell standing alone. Beside her was a single, empty mahogany chair, a silent testament to the absence of her only son, Thomas. While the world mourned a visionary, Thomas was three thousand miles away in Aspen, clinking crystal flutes of vintage champagne at a celebrity birthday gala. To Thomas, his father’s death was merely a bureaucratic transition, the final hurdle before he assumed the throne and the billions that came with it. He viewed the funeral as a tedious formality he could afford to skip, confident that his bloodline secured his future.
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