I was called to the lawyer’s office for the reading of Arthur’s will. Curtis had insisted on doing it quickly, claiming he had “urgent business” to attend to. I wasn’t originally planning to attend; after all, Curtis had made it clear where I stood. But something inside me—a small flicker of defiance—propelled me to go.
The office was impressive, all mahogany and leather, with a view of the city that seemed to stretch into eternity. Curtis sat there, a picture of arrogance, oozing smug satisfaction. I took a seat in the corner, trying to blend in with the wallpaper.
The lawyer, a stern man named Mr. Thompson, began the proceedings. Curtis barely listened, his mind already in some luxurious future. I sat quietly, feeling invisible.
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