“My son chose a birthday party over his father’s funeral. That night, I opened the letter my dying husband left behind—and discovered a clause that gave me the power to decide whether our only child would inherit everything… or nothing at all.

“My husband was not symbolic,” Eleanor said.

Victoria’s mask slipped. “You think you’ve won because Walter read some clause in a conference room. But Thomas is Richard’s only son. Courts do not like widows disinheriting children over emotional grievances.”

“Richard disinherited him. I honored the condition he wrote.”

“You manipulated a sick man.”

Eleanor’s voice remained even. “Be careful.”

Victoria smiled. “No, Eleanor. You be careful. We can drag this through court for years. We can put your marriage, your memory, your grief, your mental state, and Richard’s medical condition under a microscope. Is that what you want? Headlines? Depositions? People asking whether the great Richard Mitchell even knew what he was signing?”

The threat was not subtle.

“If that is the path Thomas chooses,” Eleanor said, “so be it.”

Victoria reached for her handbag, a crocodile Hermès Richard had bought her the previous Christmas after Thomas insisted it would smooth over some imagined slight.

“You’ll regret this,” she said.

After she left, Eleanor sat in Richard’s leather chair.

For a long while, she did nothing.