He heard a rustle and soft mumbling in Farsi. Turning around, he saw the housemaid—it must’ve been time to prepare breakfast. Damir stood up, wished her good morning, and quietly slipped away.

That day, Omer gave him a brand-new luxury Mercedes crossover and handed him a credit card for personal use. He also opened a bank account in Damir’s name.

Damir didn’t know how to react—he wasn’t used to such luxury. It felt awkward to accept, but he did, thanked his father, and said he wanted to earn everything himself. «This is all rightfully yours, son,» Omer said, nodding. «You shouldn’t be shy. And you’ll have more than enough time to earn—for yourself, and for all of us. Once I’m sure the business is in good hands, I’ll step away. And you’ll take over the corporation.»

«Me? Why me?»

«Because you’re my son.»

«Don’t push Samad aside, Father.»

«Of course not—he’s my son too. It’s not just about blood. But Samad won’t handle that kind of responsibility. I’ve seen what kind of intellect you have just in these few days—and I’ve got your full dossier, as you’ve probably guessed. I know Samad’s capabilities too. He’ll help you in everything. And the inheritance will be split evenly. But one percent more will go to you—to make you the official head of the company.»

Then, patting him on the shoulder, he added:

«But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m only saying this so you can prepare—and work hard to meet my expectations.»

Omer stood for a moment, watching his son’s reaction, then smiled with his eyes and walked back inside the house. Damir remained standing by the open door of his new car, spinning the plastic card between his fingers. He thought about Samad—who most likely saw this coming. What now? Surely he wouldn’t go as far as murder?

Getting behind the wheel, Damir started the engine and drove off slowly. He needed a bit of fresh air—those thoughts were getting too dark. Driving around the outskirts of Montreal helped distract him. He enjoyed the view of the unique old city. The scenery struck him with its mix of dominant French style and touches of American modernism. Historical landmarks and architecture stood peacefully alongside glass-and-concrete buildings. It was stunning. As he looked at the narrow streets of this Canadian Paris, with its little cafés and sparkling shop windows, he found himself dreaming that maybe, one day, he would walk here with his family—his beloved wife and children.

A general meeting was held at the corporation, where Omer Saidi introduced his son Damir and announced that from now on, he would serve as his deputy—on equal footing with Samad. He also warned that for any major decisions, both deputies would need to be in agreement. If their opinions differed—which, he said, was normal—the final decision would remain with him. Damir instantly made a good impression with his simplicity and politeness. He was given a large, spacious office on the same floor as the senior management, and an assistant—a woman named Diana, ambitious, smart, and beautiful, around 35 years old. She had previously assisted Omer himself, but now she was assigned to his son with full authority to be his right hand and watchful eye.

«I’ll do everything I can,» she promised.

After introductions and settling into her new role, she sat comfortably in the chair across from Damir and offered, «To start with, ask whatever you’d like to know. I’ll provide more detailed information as we go.»

Damir sat at his desk, studying her for a moment. He liked her confident demeanor. It was clear she was a professional, experienced woman.