When her famous show-runner brother forces quiet groom Maya to euthanize a $10M celebrity racehorse under legal threats, a barn accident exposes a secret $25M will and mob texts, triggering an unex...
Julian groaned again, pushing himself up on one elbow, his eyes still a bit glazed. His hand instinctively reached for the scattered papers.
But I was quicker.
Before he could properly focus, I darted forward, scooping up the small, leather-bound folder. My fingers closed around it, the material surprisingly soft and supple.
“What do you have there?” Julian slurred, his voice thick with pain and suspicion. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a sharp wince stopped him. He grabbed his side.
I ignored him, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My eyes scanned the barn. The syrigne was still resting harmlessly in a pile of hay. Kingmaker was calming down, but still watched us with wide, nervous eyes.
This was my chance.
I retreated a few steps, putting a bale of hay between us, giving myself a moment. Julian was still groggy, his attention divided between his own pain and the mess. His main focus was clearly on his briefcase, which lay open and empty now.
My fingers fumbled with the clasp of the binder. It wasn’t locked. Inside, nested among what looked like standard legal paperwork for the Albright Stables, was something else entirely.
The first document that caught my eye was a thick, parchment-like paper. It wasn’t printed. It was handwritten, in Grandfather Arthur Albright’s distinctive, spidery script. A chill ran down my spine. This was no ordinary letter. The title, emblazoned at the top, made my breath hitch: “LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT – ARTHUR ALBRIGHT.”
And beneath it, scrawled in my grandfather’s hand, was the word “Holographic.”
A holographic will. One written entirely by the testator, meaning it didn’t need witnesses to be valid in Kentucky. And then I saw the critical detail. My name. Written clearly, unmistakably. “To my granddaughter, Maya Albright, I bequeath full and sole ownership of Albright Stables, including all property, assets, and equine holdings.”
I glanced at Julian. He was still struggling, muttering curses, trying to gather his scattered documents. He hadn’t seen this. Not yet.
Beneath the will, secured with a small paperclip, was another stack of printed sheets. These weren’t legal forms. These were printouts. Rows and rows of text messages.
My gaze skimmed the first few lines, and my blood ran cold. The names at the top were jarring: “Julian Albright” and “Frank Moretti.”
Then, the messages themselves: “The collateral is the ranch title. $25M valuation.” And another: “Moretti says you’re good for it. Another $5M on the derby.” Followed by, “Don’t fail to deliver on the Albright property.”
My grandfather’s will. My name. Frank “The Hammer” Moretti. Illegal bookies. $25 million in collateral.
It was all here. The whole twisted truth, spilled right onto the dusty barn floor. Julian hadn’t just been trying to euthanize Kingmaker for ratings; he was desperate, tangled in something far more dangerous than I could have imagined. This wasn’t just about the show anymore.
It was about everything.
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