At my grandfather’s funeral, my cousins received his yacht, his penthouse, and his company worth 27 million dollars. I received a small, old envelope. Laughter broke out as I opened it. Inside there was only a plane ticket to Rome – INFO DESK

That was my life before the funeral.

Before the envelope.

Before everything changed.

The Rochester Country Club had never felt more suffocating than it did that October afternoon.

Grandfather had specifically requested that his will be read there, in the same oak–paneled room where he’d once hammered out deals over brandy and cigars while Lake Ontario glimmered outside the windows.

The mahogany table in front of us was polished so smooth it reflected our faces back at us like a dark mirror.

I watched Preston adjust his Rolex for the third time in five minutes. Every time he moved, the watch caught the light, a silent announcement of how sure he was that today would be his coronation.

We’d just come from the cemetery down the road, where cold autumn rain had turned the burial into a muddy mess. Beatrice had complained about her heels the entire ride over.

“Before we begin,” said Mr. Harwick, the family attorney, as he adjusted his wire–rim glasses and cleared his throat, “I want you all to know that Roland was very specific about these arrangements. He reviewed this will one week before his passing.”

The room went still.

Vernon leaned forward, his hands curling into fists on the tabletop as if he could drag the words out of the lawyer.

“We understand, Harwick,” he said smoothly. “Roland discussed the succession plan with me extensively.”

That was a lie.

He knew it.

We knew it.

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