My mother replied, “The funeral is the perfect time. She’ll be vulnerable.”
Marina giggled.
“He always does that. Tell him it’s for ‘family protection.’ He’ll believe it.”
My stomach turned.
My father continued with the same nonchalance he would use when discussing finances at the bank:
“We need the lofts to be transferred to the family trust immediately. At least four of them. She doesn’t understand Manhattan real estate.”
My mother quickly added: “And the money… eight and a half million. He’ll squander it. We’ll take care of managing it.”
Marina laughed again.
“He’ll give it to us. He still thinks we care.”
My heart was pounding in my ears. Just a moment before, I had thought that pain was the worst thing I would face that day.
Now I’ve realized something completely different.
My family had not planned to comfort me.
They were planning to take advantage of me while I was still dressed for my husband’s funeral.
Then my father said something that chilled me to the bone.
“Once he signs,” he said, “we’ll transfer the accounts and cut off his access. If he resists, we’ll say he’s unstable after Gideon’s death. The courts listen to the family.”
I froze, breathing shallowly.
They weren’t trying to help me recover.
They planned to make sure that I never touched what my husband had left behind.
Silently, I moved away from the door.
My first instinct was to burst in and confront them, to shout, to demand answers.
But anger would only give them more control.
So instead, I went into the kitchen, turned on the tap, and let the water run so it looked like I’d just arrived. I took several deep breaths and tried to calm my expression.
Then I went into the dining room.
They all looked up at the same time.
My mother rushed to me immediately.
“Oh, darling,” she said with feigned concern. “How are you feeling?”
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