Three weeks passed. I searched for a small apartment, tried to rebuild my life, and received divorce papers. Curtis wanted it fast. Clean. As if I were something to be wiped away so he could enjoy his fortune unencumbered.
Then the notice arrived.
Arthur’s attorney—Mr. Sterling, a stern and meticulous man—requested the official reading of the will. Curtis called me, furious.

“I don’t know why you’re even invited,” he snapped. “Dad probably left you some worthless trinket or photo album. Just show up, sign whatever, and disappear. Don’t ruin this for me.”
I arrived at the law firm wearing my best outfit—the only thing I owned that didn’t carry the scent of humiliation. Curtis was already there, seated at the head of the polished mahogany table, flanked by financial advisers who looked like sharks circling fresh blood.

And he smiled—confident, certain, and completely unprepared for what was coming next.
He looked at me with open contempt as I entered the room.
“Sit in the back, Vanessa,” he snapped. “And keep quiet.”

Mr. Sterling arrived moments later, carrying a heavy leather-bound folder. He took his seat, straightened his glasses, and surveyed the room. His eyes paused on me for a fraction longer than on anyone else—thoughtful, impossible to read—before moving on to Curtis.