Page 93 of Line Change

That done, I grab my stuff, shut the car off, and climb out.

Inside, I’m greeted by a receptionist who shows me to a small conference room and tells me Glenn will be right with me. She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I’m left alone with my nerves. I take a few steadying breaths, kind of wishing I’d taken Hadley and or Becca up on the offer to come with me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and shift in my seat, resting a hand on my belly.

Eventually, the door opens, and an older gentleman, Glenn presumably, steps into the room.

“Mrs. Henderson, Glenn Richards. Nice to meet you in person.”

We shake hands before he goes around to the opposite side of the conference table and sets a folder of papers down, but he doesn’t sit. Instead, he glances back at the door, adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something feels off. He’s acting nervous.

“Are we waiting for someone?” I finally ask. Maybe he’s waiting on another lawyer or a paralegal to act as witness. If so, why didn’t he just say that when he walked in?

He finally takes a seat, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m sorry about this.” He winces, but before I can ask him what he’s sorry for, the door opens. And in walks the last person on earth I wanted to see—my father.

I stiffen, my hand dropping down to my belly. What the hell is he doing here?

Without a word, he takes a seat next to Glenn. My mouth falls open. Was this a set up? Is there even any money from my grandmother? Did we really need to meet in person for me to sign the papers, or was this all for this?

I go to push my chair back to stand when Glenn speaks. “We’ve run into a complication.”

“Oh?” What the literal fuck is going on?

He pushes his glasses up his nose and opens the folder in front of him.

“Get on with it. I don’t have all day,” my father seethes. Typical. No one asked you to be here. Why is he even here?

Glenn pulls out a piece of paper and pushes it across the table toward me. “This is the paperwork for the money your grandmother left you. Sign here, and either provide a bank account number so the money can be wired in, or we can send a check.”

I pick up the pen, skimming the paper. “And the hotel chain, is the ownership transfer listed on here too?”

“They’re mine,” my father barks. “They don’t belong to you.”

I turn my gaze to him for the first time and take him in. The years have aged him and not nicely—his hair is all gray now and receding, he’s got wrinkles, and he’s put on weight.

“My grandmother, your mother, left them to me.” My voice pitches higher at the end. “There’s nothing you can do to change that. I’ve fulfilled the expectation of her will, as ridiculous as it was.” I hold up my left hand, shaking my ring finger.

My father sneers at me. “Little girl.” He puts his hands on the table, leaning toward me. “Those hotels do not belong to you. They’re mine. They should have always been mine. She should have given them to me the minute she bought them.”

You have got to be kidding me.

“Where’s the paperwork for the hotels?” I ask Glenn.

He clears his throat.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” My father snatches the paper that’s in front of me. “Told you she needed to sign the other papers first,” he snaps at Glenn before grabbing the folder on the table and riffling through it. He shoves a piece of paper at me—a transfer of ownership of the hotels from me to my father.

“Sign this first.”

“No,” I tell him, pushing it away. This can’t be happening. Now I really do wish I had someone here with me. I straighten up and glare at Glenn. “Give me the other paper back.”

“You’re forgetting who you’re dealing with. I’d sign that if I were you.” My father shoves the paper back toward me.

“No,” I repeat, crossing my arms and glaring at him. Glenn shifts in his chair.

“How’s your husband feeling today? I saw that hit. Nasty. Nasty business,” my father says with a shake of his head. “Such a shame the team lost their past few games. I thought they were doing so well this season.” I narrow my eyes. What is he implying? “There’s been so many missed calls lately. Bad hits. Goals that were disallowed that maybe shouldn’t have been. Don’t you think?” He pauses. “It’d be a shame if one of their star forwards got injured, especially if they make it into the playoffs.”

There’s no way. “You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss. “I’ll release the photographs. You know the ones I’m talking about.” Now seems like the right time to use the ammunition I have, especially given the circumstances.