“But here”—another tap—“the language on this latest missive is open-ended. You’re not just giving permission for this one deal. You’d be delegating your discretionary powers over the trust corpus to your parents’ appointed agents. In plain English? You’d be handing them the keys to the vault until the trust matures.”
He flipped to the next page, finger skating down the dense paragraphs. “Notice how it references‘any such opportunities as the trustees, their assigns, or successors may deem beneficial to the estate’. That wording is dangerously broad. It means they could leverage not just the income, but the principal—the capital itself—if they argue it falls under the umbrella of ‘beneficial.’ And if those investments go sideways?” He looked up, expression grave. “You’d carry the loss. Not them. You.”
I swallowed hard, throat tight. The blocks of text swam on the page, and I hated how easily I’d almostsigned my name to them just to stop the damn courier from showing up again.
Callum’s gaze softened a fraction, but his voice stayed firm. “They’ve written this to look like standard trustee management. But I’ve seen this trick before. It’s a reallocation of control, not an opportunity. If you’d signed, Wesley, you’d effectively be signing away the safeguards that protect your portion of the trust until you reach thirty. You’d still be the beneficiary on paper, yes—but in practice, they’d hold the reins.”
I blew out a shaky laugh that wasn’t funny at all. “So basically, they’re taking my money? Why? The family is seriously loaded.”
“Were,” Callum said, and turned a sheet of numbers for me to see. “Your oldest brother, Benedict…”
Ben had been the first to cut me off. My chest tightened. “What about him?”
“Has a fondness for gambling, both with company investments and with his own inheritances.” Callum flipped another page, lips thinning. “Your principal’s untouched, thank God. But the interest?” He tapped the margin, hard enough to make the paper shiver. “It’s been siphoned off for years. Payments disguised as administrative costs, management fees, even charitable donations routed through shell foundations. All traced back to Benedict Fairfax-Fitzalan.”
“He’s been stealing from me?”
Callum nodded. “This document isn’t just about one investment. It’s a blanket authorization. If you’d signed it, Benedict could retroactively justify every siphoned dollar. Wipe the slate clean, bury any liability, and tighten the noose so the same thing keeps happening, only bigger. And you’d have no way to fight it.”
I swallowed, throat dry. “Tell me something, Callum. How much of this… did they even have the right to do?”
“None,” he said. “Not without your consent. Which they never got and now they’re trying to rewrite history by shoving this under your nose.”
I laughed, no humor in it. “Fuck.”
His gaze sharpened. “Tell me more about your situation. All of it.”
So, I did. Slowly, haltingly, words spilling out as though they’d been waiting years. “I came out at eighteen, and they made it clear I was done. No home. No college fund. No family name. Expelled, erased, disowned—the whole scorched-earth package.” I shrugged, because I’d been expecting it from my ultra-conservative red family with their fingers in politics and religion. “My trust was the one thing they couldn’t take, because it came from my grandfather, not them. They hated that. Still do. Every year, they’ve foundsome new way to try to pry it loose.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “And the thing is… sometimes I almost want to just give in. To make them stop calling, stop sending papers, stop pretending they get to control me. Just… stop.”
“Eleven point three million dollars,” Callum murmured.
I shrank in my chair.
“I know.” I winced as he stared at me. “I don’t want it; I want to set up a charity or a fund for kids like me who didn’t have untouched savings to fall back on. I just need enough to keep The Story Lantern, if I make it that far.”
The silence stretched, broken by the faint ticking of the clock on Callum’s desk. Then he set the pen down with care and leaned forward, his lawyer mask slipping, leaving a friend.
“They’re counting on you to sign because it looks routine. They’re counting on you to be tired, overwhelmed, too polite to dig deeper. They’re banking on you being the scared kid they threw out.” His voice dropped lower, gentler, but the steel stayed in it. “You’re not that kid anymore. And they won’t trick you into handing back the little protection you’ve got. Not on my watch.”
“What do I do? How do I protect it until I’m thirty?” I asked, my voice thinner than I wanted.
Callum sat back, scanning the notes he’d written in his neat, blocky hand. “You’re twenty-nine in a few weeks.”
“Yes,” I said.
“That gives us just over a year until the trust transfers fully into your control. Until then, I can file an injunction to freeze any further activity. No siphoning, no backdoor deals, nothing without your explicit written consent.” His tone was clipped, efficient—classic lawyer. “It’ll buy us time.”
I sagged a little in relief—until the reality came crashing in. “Callum, I can’t afford you. Not now. I can barely afford to keep The Story Lantern’s lights on, let alone pay lawyer fees.” My throat tightened, guilt flooding me. “I shouldn’t even have asked?—”
He cut me off with a shake of his head. “Wes, stop. The trust is designed to protect you, not bury you. You know what else it allows? You can take moneyfrom itto invest in your own future—education, property, business ventures. Before your thirtieth birthday.”
I blinked. “I can?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, sliding one of the pages toward me. “Read this clause.‘Funds may be released at the trustee’s discretion for the beneficiary’s advancement or maintenance.’That’s legalese for: if you can prove it’s for your welfare or to develop yourfuture, it’s yours to use. And The Story Lantern qualifies. It’s your livelihood.”
My pulse spiked. “Enough to invest in the store for another year?”
“You’d need to show income and outgoings, projected growth, maybe even a plan for expansion. But yes—it’s your money.” His lawyer mask was back in full force, precise and unyielding. “And I’d make damn sure it’s watertight soBenedict”—he said the name as if it tasted sour—“can’t touch it.”
