And after my father died, Gerald made sure I knew one thing.
I might have inherited Whitfield Logistics.
But he believed the company still belonged to him.
“Seventeen times, Sloan,” he said. “The board is watching discipline closely. Your father would never have tolerated this.”
That sentence hit harder than it should have.
Because Gerald knew exactly where to press.
My father, William Whitfield, had built Whitfield Logistics from one rented warehouse outside Knoxville, Tennessee, into a regional distribution company with three hundred employees, two warehouses, and contracts across the Southeast.
Then a heart attack took him at sixty-three.
And suddenly I was the woman in the glass office.
The daughter.
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