Yan hands me a piece of paper, and I read it over. It’s all bullshit words that I can’t even pronounce let alone know the meaning of. It’s in fucking attorney lingo. I blink. “I don’t understand.”
George sits back in his seat. “It’s simple, Emilee. Your father had a will. Well, a trust.”
I nod. “Okay.” I’m not surprised. My father was always preparing for the unexpected, and he understood that death was a part of life. He wanted my mother and me to be taken care of. “Are we going to have a get-together for a reading of the will?” That’s what we did when my father’s parents passed. They were billionaires and had two kids, my father and my uncle Jack. We had to fly to Texas and meet with their attorney, and he named off every asset that they had left to their children. It did not go over well. They left my father over seventy-five percent of their fortune. My uncle was pissed. I haven’t seen him since.
“That’s what this is.” George points at the papers that I still hold.
“I don’t understand.” I look back down at it. I don’t see my mom or me mentioned anywhere on it.
“He has made me the executor,” George announces.
“And?” I lick my dry lips.
“And I’m in charge of everything.”
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. “What do you mean? Everything?”
“We were fifty-fifty partners in York and Wilton Construction. We started it together right out of college,” he rambles.
Yeah, with my father’s money.He acts like I don’t know him. “The house?” That’s what I care about. Making sure my mother has a place to stay is the most important part.
George looks over at Mr. Yan and then back at me. “Also mine.”
I stand. “I don’t see how it can beyours,” I growl, getting pissy. “It’s in my father’s name.” He built her that house five years ago. It was exactly what she always wanted. She designed everything from the mosaic tiles and the crystal chandeliers to the color of paint in the closets. She had rugs flown in from Paris that she designed, for God’s sake.
“No. It’s in the company’s name.” He opens a desk drawer and pulls out an envelope. “And your father and I had an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.
He slides it across the surface, but I make no move to pick it up.
Sitting back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “If one of us passes, the remaining partner has first dibs at their shares of the company for a pre-determined amount.” He nods at Yan. “It’s stated in that document. Black and white.”
I pick up the envelope and hold it in my hand. The room falls silent as I gently pull the tab back and look inside with shaky hands. “It’s a dollar.” I look up at him.
He nods. “That’s what we agreed upon.”
I put it back on the desk and rub a hand down my face, releasing a long breath. “What about my mother? She is his wife. She is legally entitled to what was his.” Not like my mother would want fifty percent of the company—she never showed any interest—but she could sell my father’s shares and that money could take care of what little time she has left.
Mr. Yan and George exchange a look.
Slamming my hands on the desk, I stand. “Quit bullshitting me.” I may not be an attorney, but I’m not an idiot. He can’t possibly take the house just because it’s written in a trust. It may be in the company’s name, but it should go to my mother. His wife.
George opens up the desk drawer again and hands me a black folder.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, mentally tired. He doesn’t respond. I fall into the chair and rip it open. Pulling the papers out, I read over them, and my heart begins to pound in my chest. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Emilee.” George speaks. “They wanted to tell you …”
“I don’t believe it.” I shake my head as tears prick my eyes.Divorce.They got a divorce. “Two years ago?” I read both of their signatures and dates. “But …” I want to say that I’ve seen them together, but I haven’t. Not since I graduated college and moved to Chicago. But wouldn’t they have told me? That’s fucking important. “This is bullshit!”
“They didn’t want to burden you with their differences,” Mr. Yan adds. “But unfortunately, when they got a divorce, she was no longer covered under the company’s health insurance.”
I let out a rough laugh because this is a joke. It has to be.
“Mr. Wilton will continue to pay for her care.”
“So, that’s what this is about?” Growling, I stand and begin to pace the room, my heels sinking into the thick rug. Now he’s going to take care of her?At what cost?Is the first thought that comes to mind. But a part of me already knows that answer, so I refuse to ask it out loud. I won’t give him that satisfaction. “This can’t be happening.” I sigh.
