“The purchase offer is already written,” he said. “We will clear enough from the restructuring to buy the beach house cash, but only if we get her signature before the probate office opens on Friday.”
I held my breath, my pinky finger freezing around my grandmother’s ring. My father’s development company, the source of our entire Greenwich lifestyle, was apparently nothing more than a hollow shell waiting for my inheritance to fill its cracks.
“What if she asks questions?” Beatrice whispered. “What if she wants to talk to Rebecca Shaw?”
“Rebecca has no standing unless Emma initiates a formal dispute,” Charles said, his voice flat. “And Emma won’t do that. She doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.”
I took a slow step backward into the shadow of a large vase of ferns, my leather heels making no sound on the thick runner.
I turned and walked quickly to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.
It was eleven o’clock when I sat at my small writing desk, my heart steady but cold. I pulled my grandfather’s silver-plated desk pen from its marble holder, the heavy metal cool against my fingers. The desk was quiet, illuminated only by the soft glow of my laptop and the small reading lamp in the corner.
