“Spare me. Dad’s lectures. Skip it.”
“I cannot,” Sterling replied. “Because your inheritance depends on it.”
He cleared his throat and read aloud:
“I built my fortune on solid foundations. And a structure cannot stand if the foundation is corrupt. I have observed my son Curtis for many years—his vanity, his selfishness, and, most painfully, his lack of compassion toward his dying father. But I have also observed Vanessa.”
My heart jolted. Arthur… had written about me?
Sterling continued:
“Vanessa has been the daughter I never had. She tended to my wounds, tolerated my moods, and preserved my dignity in my final days—while my own son watched the clock, waiting for my death. I know Curtis values money over people. And I fear that once I am gone, he will discard Vanessa to enjoy my fortune without witnesses to his cruelty.”
Curtis’s face drained of color. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Therefore,” Sterling read firmly, “if at the time of my death and the reading of this will, Curtis remains married to Vanessa, living with her, and treating her with the respect she deserves, he shall inherit the seventy-five million dollars. However—”
Sterling paused. Curtis was visibly shaking.
“If Curtis has abandoned Vanessa, removed her from the marital home, or initiated divorce proceedings prior to this reading, it confirms my fears. In that case, Curtis’s inheritance shall be limited to a trust of two thousand dollars per month, designated solely for basic living expenses, with no access to the principal.”
The room went utterly still.
“That’s impossible!” Curtis screamed, leaping up. “I’m his son! He can’t do this!”
“Please wait,” Sterling said, raising his hand. “I have not yet read where the remaining assets are allocated.”
He turned toward me. This time, his expression softened into a small, respectful smile.
“In the event that my son has revealed his true character and cast aside his wife, all remaining assets—including the residence, investments, and seventy-five million dollars—shall transfer fully and irrevocably to the only individual who proved herself worthy: Mrs. Vanessa.”
The room seemed to tilt. My hands shook against the table—not from fear, but disbelief.
Curtis stood frozen, staring at me as though I’d risen from the dead.
“All of it… to her?” he whispered.
Sterling snapped the folder shut with a decisive crack.
“Yes, Mr. Curtis. According to the divorce documents you personally submitted last week”—he lifted the papers—“and the testimony of security confirming Mrs. Vanessa’s removal from the home, the disinheritance clause has been fully activated.”
Curtis collapsed into his chair, gasping.
“No… no… this can’t be right,” he cried. “Sterling, fix this! Vanessa, please!”
He spun toward me, desperation replacing arrogance in seconds. He lunged forward, trying to seize my hands.
“Vanessa, sweetheart,” he begged. “I was under pressure. Grief broke me. I didn’t mean to push you away. I just needed space! I love you. We can fix this. We have seventy-five million! Everything can be perfect again!”
I looked at him—at the same hands that had thrown a check at my feet and watched me be expelled into the rain. In his eyes, I saw no love. Only panic. Greed. Fear of being poor.
Continue reading…
