At my grandfather’s funeral, my cousins received his yacht, his penthouse, and his company worth 27 million dollars. I received a small, old envelope. Laughter broke out as I opened it. Inside there was only a plane ticket to Rome – INFO DESK

“You play like your father,” he told me once, eyes locked on the board. “Too worried about protecting your pieces. Not focused enough on winning the game.”

“Maybe I don’t want to sacrifice everything just to win,” I said.

For a second, something almost like pride flickered in his eyes.

He smiled—really smiled—for the first time I could remember.

“Maybe that’s why you’re the only one who still interests me, Nathan,” he said.

Preston and Mallerie never understood those games.

Preston was too busy shadowing Grandfather in glass–walled New York conference rooms, sitting in the corner while men in expensive suits talked about freight rates and tax shelters. He got his MBA from Wharton—Grandfather’s alma mater—and mentioned it in every conversation like it was his middle name.

Every family dinner at the Hamptons house or the Westchester mansion turned into Preston’s personal TED Talk.

He spoke in bullet points and buzzwords, firing off phrases like “synergy” and “vertical integration” while his father nodded along, proud of how smart his son sounded.

If you listened closely, you’d notice he never actually said anything.

Mallerie took a different route.

She turned her last name into a brand.

Online, she was “Mal Whitmore” with two hundred thousand followers watching her pose on boats, in penthouses, on rooftops overlooking Manhattan. Her life was a highlight reel of designer bags, champagne flutes, and “candid” laughs.

She called it “building her platform.”

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