My Arrogant Boss Treated Me Like an Unpaid Servant — Until an Inheritance Clause Revealed Who Truly Owned His $8 Million Estate
The next morning, the air in the estate office felt thick and cold. I was polishing a silver tea set, the metal chilling my fingertips, when Julian Koster’s voice drifted through the thin wall separating the pantry from his private office. An HVAC vent connected the two spaces, a common feature in old mansions.
I paused, pressing my ear closer. Julian was not alone.
“Bradley, glad you could make it,” Julian’s voice, smooth and practiced, filled the vent.
“Couldn’t miss a meeting with the Koster heir,” a second voice replied, a man’s, slightly rough around the edges. “Especially when you’re waving around this kind of cash.”
The faint crinkle of paper followed. My fingers tightened around the silver teapot handle.
“Five thousand dollars,” Julian stated, “Is just an advance. For a favor.”
A man named Bradley Gaines. I recognized the name. He was the city’s commercial appraiser, known for his quick turnaround times and even quicker temper.
“The old basement cottage,” Julian continued, his voice dropping slightly, “Needs to be deemed structurally unsound. Condemned, if possible.”
A sick feeling coiled in my stomach. He meant my small, damp room. My sanctuary.
“Unsound?” Gaines chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “That place has been standing since ’38. Passed every inspection.”
“Things change, Bradley,” Julian pressed, his tone hardening. “Foundations shift. Pest infestations appear. You’re the expert. You know how these things go.”
I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking slightly. I opened the voice recorder app, pressing the red button. The light blinked steadily.
“Look, Julian, I’m a city man,” Gaines said, a hint of unease in his voice. “Falsifying a condemnation notice could get my license revoked. That’s my livelihood.”
“Your livelihood, Bradley,” Julian countered, his voice sharp as a razor, “Could be significantly *enhanced* with regular consultations from Koster Heritage. Think of the future projects.”
He paused, letting his words hang in the air.
“Or,” Julian added, almost as an afterthought, “You could face a rather inconvenient audit from the state licensing board. I hear they’re cracking down on… discrepancies. Wouldn’t want any old zoning reports resurfacing, would we?”
A silence stretched, broken only by the faint whir of the office’s air conditioning. I imagined Gaines shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Alright, alright,” Gaines finally relented, his voice tinged with resignation. “But it’s going to cost you, Julian. This kind of creative paperwork isn’t cheap.”
“Consider it an investment,” Julian said, his voice returning to its confident, assured tone. “Have the report on my desk by end of week. And make sure it’s legally airtight.”
I pulled my phone away from the vent, my heart thumping against my ribs. Julian was trying to force me out, not just from the estate, but from the only home I’d known for decades. And he was willing to break the law to do it.
The silver teapot felt cold and heavy in my hand. I had the proof. Now, I just needed to know what to do with it.
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