Then I heard voices.
My father Richard, my mother Margaret, and Vanessa talking in the dining room.
I stopped quietly in the hallway before they could see me.
Richard spoke first, his tone calm and practical.
“She’ll still be in shock. That’s when we get her to sign.”
My mother replied quickly. “The funeral makes it easier. She’ll be vulnerable.”
Vanessa laughed.
“She always is. Just tell her it’s for ‘family protection.’ She’ll fall for it.”
My stomach twisted.
Richard continued like he was discussing business.
“We move the lofts into the family trust immediately. At least four. She doesn’t understand Manhattan property.”
Margaret added urgently, “And the cash. Eight and a half million is too much for her to manage. We’ll control it.”
Vanessa chuckled again.
“She’ll hand it over. She still believes we care.”
The room seemed to shrink around me. My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the rest of their voices.
I had come here believing grief would be the hardest thing I faced today.
But grief was only part of it.
Because the people in that room weren’t planning to comfort me.
They were planning to take everything from me—while I was still wearing black.