Chapter 9 - The Ghost of the Will
Six days after the gala, Tuesday morning arrived.
Ethan’s ninth birthday.
In the high-ceilinged conference room of the state’s oldest probate firm, Daniel sat at the head of the mahogany table. Across from him sat three senior partners and the family estate executor, Arthur Sterling’s longtime legal counsel, Judge Thomas Vance.
On the table sat the sealed iron box containing Arthur’s original testamentary codicils.
"Daniel," Judge Vance said, adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "As of 9:00 AM today, your son Ethan has officially turned nine years old. Pursuant to Section IV, Clause 12.B, no second biological heir has been produced."
Daniel did not flinch. "I am aware."
"Under normal circumstances, forty percent of the liquid trust—approximately one hundred and sixty-four million dollars—would now transfer immediately to your brother, Julian Sterling."
Daniel looked out the window. "Julian is in Madrid. I spoke to him yesterday. He wants nothing to do with this money. He told me Arthur used this trust to tear our family apart, and he was right."
"That may be true, Daniel," Judge Vance said, a faint, enigmatic smile touching his lips. "However, your father left an additional, sealed codicil. One that was only to be opened if you failed to produce a second heir, and if Carter Sterling was removed from executive standing."
Daniel snapped his attention back to the judge. "What?"
Judge Vance broke the wax seal on a thick manila envelope and slid a single sheet of paper across the table.
It was written in Arthur Sterling’s aggressive, heavy-handed calligraphy.
*Daniel,* the letter read.
*If you are reading this, it means two things: You did not allow yourself to be rushed into another hollow marriage simply to satisfy my vanity, and Carter has finally shown his true colors.*
*I knew Carter was skimming from the fund before I died. I also suspected his hand in Eleanor's tragic fate, though I lacked the legal proof to destroy him without ruining our family name. I wrote this trust not to torment you, my son, but to force the rats into the light.*
*I knew Carter could not resist a four-hundred-million-dollar prize. I knew that if there was a deadline, he would strike, he would become reckless, and he would expose himself.*
*You were always too noble, Daniel. Too trusting. Eleanor was a saint, and losing her almost destroyed your spine. You needed to wake up.*
*The trust does not transfer to Julian. It transfers entirely to Ethan, with you as the sole, irrevocable executor for the remainder of your natural life. Build a real life, Daniel. Stop living in my shadow.*
*— Arthur.*
Daniel stared at the parchment.
His ruthless, unyielding father had played the longest game of all. Arthur had turned himself into the monster in the dark to force Carter’s hand, using the four-hundred-million-dollar trust as bait in a trap that had finally snapped shut five years later.
Daniel let out a long, ragged breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob.
He folded the letter carefully, slipped it into his breast pocket, and stood up.
"Thank you, Judge Vance."
"Where are you going, Daniel? We still have dozens of proxy forms for you to sign."
Daniel smiled—the first genuine smile that had touched his lips in half a decade.
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"I have a ninth birthday party to attend," Daniel said. "And I'm already late for the go-karts."
***
