The heavy oak doors to the Wisehearts Industries conference room swung open, and Clarke Wiseheart strode in. The air in the room shifted with his entrance. His tailored suit and calm demeanor were at great opposition with the tension already simmering among the board members. Around the long table, senior executives and advisors exchanged curious, skeptical glances. The whispers began almost immediately.“Who is this?” came the gruff voice of Samuel Vance, one of the longest-serving board members. His gaze lingered on Clarke with open disdain. “Where’s Duke?”“Or Clifford,” Margot Reynolds added, her tone sharp. “Someone we actually know.”Clarke ignored their murmurs and walked to the head of the table, the exact spot his father had occupied for decades. Resting his hands on the polished wood, he addressed the room with the steadiness of a man who had long prepared for this moment. This was his time.“I’m Clarke Wiseheart,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a bla