You're nothing but an eighteen-year-old leech who enticed an eighty-year-old dying woman for her forty-million-dollar estate, my closest friend Carter shouted at me across the mahogany funeral re...
The air in the grand mahogany reception room hung heavy with the scent of lilies and unspoken judgment. My face still burned from Carter’s public accusation, the eviction notice a crumpled insult in my numb hand.
Every hushed conversation had stopped, replaced by the collective stare of Greenwich society.
Arthur Croft, Victoria’s estate attorney, stepped forward. His silver hair was perfectly combed, his dark suit impeccable, a stark contrast to the raw emotion in the room.
“If I may have your attention,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm, cutting through the murmurs.
His gaze swept over the crowd, landing briefly on Carter, whose smirk had not yet faded.
“Mrs. Dupont’s will contains a specific, rather unique clause.”
Carter scoffed, shifting his weight. “A unique clause to hand over forty million dollars to an eighteen-year-old freeloader? We’ve seen her ‘uniqueness’ before.”
Mr. Croft’s eyes, usually so placid, held a glint of something I couldn’t quite place. He pulled a thick document from his briefcase, its pages bound by a green ribbon.
“Item six of the last will and testament of Victoria L. Dupont,” he announced, “stipulates a mandatory challenge clause.”
A few people murmured, their heads tilted in confusion.
“Any and all attempts to contest, challenge, or otherwise impede the execution of this will, specifically concerning the transfer of Dupont Manor and its associated assets to Julian St. Clair, shall be subject to a seven-day waiting period.”
Carter’s jaw went slack. The smug look vanished from his face, replaced by a flash of genuine anger.
“Seven days?” he sputtered, pushing forward. “What is this nonsense? My injunction is already filed!”
Mr. Croft held up a hand, calm and unyielding. “The clause specifies ‘before any legal action can be heard or considered by a court of law.’”
He gestured to the eviction notice still clutched in my hand. “That document, Mr. Pendelton, is an attempt to impede. It falls squarely under this clause.”
The room erupted in whispers. Lawyers in attendance exchanged knowing glances.
Carter looked like he’d been slapped. “This is a stall tactic! It’s ridiculous!”
“It is, Mr. Pendelton,” Arthur Croft replied, “a perfectly legal and ironclad provision. Mrs. Dupont anticipated precisely this scenario.”
He walked towards Carter, holding out a copy of the will. “The court will review this on the eighth day from the date of her passing. Until then, any formal action against Mr. St. Clair is stayed.”
Carter snatched the document, his face mottled red. He read the lines, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for a loophole that wasn’t there.
His attorney, a thin man with a perpetually worried expression, stepped forward and whispered something to Carter. Carter shook his head violently.
“This is not over, Jules,” Carter snarled, turning his fury on me. “Seven days just buys you time to pack your bags.”
He shoved past the stunned mourners, his expensive shoes clicking sharply on the polished floor, leaving the room in a swirl of frustrated rage.
I watched him go, the crumpled paper finally slipping from my fingers. Victoria, even in death, was still playing her hand. This seven-day delay was a lifeline, a chance I hadn’t known I needed. It was a reprieve, but it felt like a ticking clock.
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