The massive property.
The land.
The house.
Everything.
In his world, he was the only surviving son.
That meant the money naturally belonged to him.
Lauren sat beside him in a black dress, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she had already folded inside her purse.
Performative grief, delivered on schedule.
The lawyer was a gray-haired woman with reading glasses hanging from a chain and the calm expression of someone who had spent thirty years watching families destroy themselves over property.
She opened the folder.
Then she read Gran’s final wishes.
The entire Winston-Salem property—the house, the land, every square foot—had been left strictly and exclusively to me.
Dad and Lauren received minor cash sums.
Modest amounts.
Deliberate amounts.
The kind designed to send a message.
I see you clearly.
And this is what you are worth.
The will had been drafted, witnessed, and notarized with extraordinary legal precision.
