Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“There’s a silver lining to all of this, though.” Riggs leans against his cue like it’s a cane, ankles crossed, a winning game show–host smile on his face.
I arch an eyebrow in question. “Enlighten me.”
“He’s dead now, and you get to make the final move. To leverage whatever’s in the will to your advantage.”
“Meaning?”
“Whatever she doesn’t get, you’ll dangle in front of her face like a carrot.” Riggs uses his cue to scratch his back, his eyebrows arched. “You wanted to conquer her, didn’t you? This is how you deliver the final blow. How you win.”
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t peg you for the cunning type.”
“Oh, I can be ruthless.” Riggs waves me off with a chuckle. “I just never give enough damn to show that side of me.”
Huh.
I’m going to make the most out of the situation.
Even if it means putting flames to Douglas Corbin’s legacy.
Three days later it arrives. A signature-required manila envelope. Alfred from reception calls to let me know it is here. I charge out of my apartment barefoot.
“Who delivered it? UPS?” I pluck the folder out of the old man’s fingers.
He shakes his head. “Hand delivered by some important-lookin’ fella in a suit. I hope it works out well for you, son.”
In the elevator, I muster every ounce of my self-control not to rip the brown envelope to shreds. That would be exactly what my father would have wanted. I can’t risk the infinitesimal chance an afterlife does exist, and his spirit is watching me from above.
I flip the bird upward instead, then downward, toward the floor. “My inkling is you ended up in hell, but there’s just enough chance you bribed an angel for a place in heaven.”
When I return to my apartment, I frisbee the envelope atop my office desk, go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee, and then return. I slit the envelope with my letter opener, then neatly pull out the stack of papers, reminding myself internally for the millionth time that I don’t care either way.
But I do. I care, and it’s fucking killing me.
I know my shine would dim in Grace’s eyes if Doug made her as rich as I am. I dangle my pedigree, my prestige, my family’s billions in front of her to keep her. If that goes away, she might leave for good.
And if she leaves for good, I lose. Truly and finally lose our three-decade war.
Here goes nothing.
I skim over the boring parts and dive straight to business. I begin reading through the items.
The majority of the estates, save for the office building in Scarsdale that went to Dad’s business partner, now belongs to me.
The liquid money, bonds, and bank accounts go to me, in their entirety. His investment portfolio is mine now. His time-share private plane too. I even get the cars, antique furniture, and ugly heirlooms.
I get everything he’s ever possessed.
Miranda Langston gets nothing. Not even the canned goods in the pantry. Not even his best fucking regards. Grace doesn’t seem to be getting anything either. What the hell was the estate lawyer talking about? That he left her something of value?
I stare at the file in confusion. What am I missing?
And then I see it. At the very end of the will. Gracelynn Langston has received Calypso Hall. The small theater, a stone’s throw from Times Square, is neglected and in desperate need of refurbishing. If it is functioning at all, it must be a money pit. I suspect the only reason it hasn’t closed thus far is because too many tourists can’t get their hands on Broadway tickets in time and end up catching a show there.
The place isn’t worth the real estate it is occupying. And the best part is it’s a historical building, so whoever is gonna buy it would have to keep it a theater. It is therefore unsellable. Not for a good price, anyway.
Grace isn’t a penny richer than she was before this will.
Great news for me.
A bombshell for her.
I sit back, mulling this over—what was Douglas’s angle? What was he planning to achieve by depriving me of this glorified shithole?
Then it hits me.
Calypso Hall was originally purchased when my mother first moved to the US. I’d overheard the servants say that she was lonely and bored out of her mind during her pregnancy with me. To pacify her, my father decided to gift her something to keep her busy and out of his hair. Since Patrice was an aspiring actress, he bought her this failing theater. He appointed her as the managing director and, in true Corbin fashion, told her to spare no dime in making it a success.
She’d spent days and nights there, fussing over every detail, each stage prop, each show. Some said she actually turned it around and made it profitable for a few months. My father didn’t tell me a lot about her, but he did say that as soon as I was born, she tossed me into the arms of a wet nurse and continued working at the theater, and forgot all about my existence.