“What’s going on?” I asked, my grip tightening on the strap of my duffel bag.
Before Cheryl could stammer out another lie, a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into the foyer from the living room. He held a leather briefcase and looked down his nose at my stepmother with undisguised contempt.
“Are you Alex?” the man asked, his tone professional but entirely focused on me.
“Yes,” I said cautiously.
“Excellent. I am Arthur Sterling, senior partner at Sterling & Vance. We are the executors of your late mother’s trust, which was overseen by your father.”
Wait, Mom’s trust?
Arthur gestured toward the sprawling living room. “Please, come inside. We have urgent matters to discuss, and it appears Mrs. Evans was… premature in her actions yesterday.”
Cheryl’s pale face flushed crimson. She reached out, trying to gently touch my arm, but I recoiled. “Alex, honey,” she whispered through gritted teeth, “please, tell them we had a misunderstanding. You know I was just blindingly grieving, right?”
I ignored her, walking past her into the living room. Four other serious-looking men and women in suits were packing up documents and inspecting the art on the walls.
Arthur sat across from me and motioned for me to take the armchair. “Your mother, before she passed, came from a family of significant means. She estranged herself from them to live a normal life, but she left her entire estate in an ironclad blind trust for you. Your father was merely the custodian. The terms were absolute: upon your father’s death, or your eighteenth birthday—whichever came last—the assets would transfer entirely to you.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning. “Assets? Like… money?”
“Money, investments, and,” Arthur paused, looking pointedly at Cheryl, who was hovering in the doorway wringing her hands, “this house. The deed has always been in the trust’s name. It is now legally yours.”
Cheryl let out a choked gasp. “But… but Thomas was my husband! I have marital rights! Half of this is mine!”
Arthur adjusted his glasses. “Your prenuptial agreement with Thomas was quite clear. Furthermore,” he said, turning back to me, his eyes softening slightly, “your father left a secondary stipulation regarding his personal life insurance. Mrs. Evans was to receive a generous payout, provided she maintained a stable, welcoming home for you until you finished college.”
The silence in the room was deafening.
“Unfortunately for Mrs. Evans,” Arthur continued, his voice turning to ice, “our firm’s private security detail monitored the property last night as standard protocol during the transition of a high-value estate. We recorded her forcefully evicting you. By doing so, she violated the sole condition of her inheritance.”
Cheryl looked like she was going to faint. The “smiles for show” were completely gone, replaced by the panicked realization that her cruelty had just cost her everything.
“You have twenty-four hours to vacate my client’s property,” Arthur told her, not blinking. “If you take anything that belongs to the estate, we will press charges.”
Cheryl looked at me, tears welling in her eyes—real ones, this time. “Alex… please. I have nowhere to go. We’re family.”
I looked around the room. This was the house where Mom taught me to play guitar. The house where Dad tried his best to keep us together. I looked at the woman who hadn’t even waited for his funeral flowers to wilt before tossing me to the curb.
“You’re not family anymore,” I echoed her words from yesterday, my voice remarkably steady. “Get out.”
