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CHAPTER 1
Edward
"Members of the jury, the defense would have you believe that Meridian Industries' acquisition of these twelve regional media companies constitutes predatory monopolization." I paused, allowing the legal weight of the phrase to settle in the stifling courtroom air.
"What they fail to comprehend is that consolidation is not predation—it is the natural evolution of market efficiency."
The jurors hung on my every calculated syllable. I'd learned years ago that courtrooms weren't won through theatrical displays, but through surgical precision—each argument a carefully placed incision, each pause a moment to let the logic penetrate.
"Consider the financial realities, not the romantic notions."
I moved closer to the jury box, my footsteps measured on the polished marble. "These regional broadcasters recorded a collective thirty-seven percent decline in viewership over eighteen months.
Their advertising revenues had plummeted forty-two percent. Meridian didn't prey upon thriving enterprises—they intervened to prevent complete market collapse."
Behind me, Meridian's CEO maintained the perfect stillness I'd coached him to display. Their legal team wore expressions of calculated confidence, knowing this case had been won through months of meticulous preparation rather than courtroom dramatics.
"The prosecution romanticizes the notion of independent regional media," I continued, adjusting the platinum cufflinks my Father had worn to his first partnership meeting—a ritual that steadied my hands before delivering the fatal blow.
"But sentiment doesn't generate shareholder returns. Nostalgia doesn't fund pension plans. Meridian Industries offers these failing entities what their boards are legally obligated to provide: fiduciary responsibility made manifest."
I could see the shift in the jury's collective posture, the subtle nods of comprehension.
Sarah Reynolds, the prosecution attorney—competent, prepared, but ultimately outmatched—maintained her composure, though I caught the infinitesimal tightening around her eyes that betrayed her recognition of defeat.
"This acquisition represents textbook consolidation economics, not monopolistic overreach. When Netflix absorbed regional content libraries, when Amazon consolidated book retailers, when telecommunications giants merged to provide better coverage—was this predation, or was this progress?"
I returned to my table with deliberate slowness. "The prosecution asks you to choose sentiment over law, tradition over economics. I ask you to choose reality."
The final words carried the weight of absolute certainty. Judge Harrison called for recess, and I organized my documents with the same methodical precision I applied to every aspect of my existence.
"Masterful as always, Mr. Grosvenor," Harold Fleming, Meridian's lead counsel, whispered beside me. "You've made corporate law look like poetry."
"Poetry implies creativity," I replied, sliding papers into their designated sections. "This was simply logic, properly applied."
The verdict arrived ninety-seven minutes later.
Unanimous for the defense. Another acquisition cleared for completion, another precedent established, another victory in an unbroken chain stretching back fifteen years.
Yet as the gavel fell, I found myself thinking not of triumph, but of lunch eaten alone in my office while reviewing briefs for tomorrow's case.
My penthouse commanded London with the same imperial authority I wielded in court, though the comparison felt increasingly hollow with each passing day.
As Jameson, my driver, navigated the afternoon traffic, I reviewed tomorrow's calendar on my tablet—three depositions, two client meetings, and a charity dinner where I'd smile appropriately while Mother networked with surgical precision.
The private lift whisked me to the forty-second floor in blessed silence.
Mrs. Henley had completed her daily restoration of order—no evidence of human habitation disturbed the pristine surfaces.
The glass dining table reflected no fingerprints, the Italian leather sofa cushions bore no impressions, the Isfahan rug lay perfectly aligned to complement the room's feng shui principles.
I loosened my tie with careful deliberation, aware that even this small concession to comfort would be rectified within the hour.
My reflection in the antique Venetian mirror presented the expected image. Not a thread was out of place, no fatigue creasing the features that had stared down opposing counsel across three continents.
The silence was profound, almost ecclesiastical.
No television chatter, no music, no human voices—just the subtle whisper of climate-controlled air and the distant hum of London forty-two floors below.