The letter bore the insignia of Arthur’s lawyer—a man I knew well from countless family dinners, a man who had admired my dedication and loyalty to Arthur during his final years. It invited me to a formal reading of the will.
I arrived at the law office, feeling fragile yet determined. Curtis was already there, lounging confidently, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He barely acknowledged my presence, engrossed in his phone, his thumbs flicking through messages of congratulations, no doubt.
The room was still as the lawyer settled into his seat, adjusting his glasses, his expression solemn yet unreadable. He began reading the will, Curtis barely disguising his impatience. It was a long document, filled with Arthur’s wishes for his art collection, specific scholarships in his name, donations to cancer research—a cause close to his heart.
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