He needs the firm’s safety net more than you do, Julian, my father declared across the formal dinner table, cutting my monthly commission allocation by $14,500 to pay my ex-partner Marcus’s luxur...
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the panoramic windows of Arthur’s waterfront home, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He sat in his favorite armchair, a book open on his lap, looking peaceful. I had just arrived, planning to update him on Evelyn’s latest findings.
Then the doorbell chimed, a polite, insistent sound.
Arthur looked up, a faint smile on his face. “Expecting anyone, Julian?”
“No, Grandfather,” I replied, a prickle of unease running down my spine. The timing felt too convenient, too abrupt after the legal threats.
I went to the door. Two men in dark suits stood on the porch, holding official-looking envelopes. My stomach clenched. Process servers. Again.
“Arthur Brooks?” the lead server asked, his gaze bypassing me.
“That’s my name,” Arthur said, stepping forward, his brow furrowed with mild curiosity.
The man extended a document. “You’ve been served. Emergency legal petition, probate court.”
Arthur took the papers, his hand steady. His eyes scanned the first few lines, then widened slightly. A faint flush crept up his neck.
“What is this nonsense?” he asked, his voice sharp, losing its usual gentle tone.
I looked over his shoulder. The words jumped out: “Petition for Determination of Incapacity… Cognitive Decline… Incapacitation to Manage Financial Affairs…”
Marcus. He was challenging Arthur’s mental competence. He was trying to invalidate the 1994 Founder Trust Clause by claiming Arthur was too old, too frail, to make sound decisions.
“He’s trying to nullify the Trust,” I explained, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. “He’s trying to declare you unfit.”
Arthur gripped the papers tighter. His face, usually serene, grew rigid. His chest began to rise and fall more rapidly.
“Unfit?” he rasped, his eyes flashing with indignation. “After 82 years building this firm? After setting up its very foundations?”
I saw a vein pulse violently at his temple. His breathing became shallow. “Grandfather, sit down,” I urged, placing a hand on his back.
He waved me off, his focus entirely on the legal assault. “This is Marcus’s work, isn’t it? He thinks an old man can be pushed aside so easily.”
His face was now red, his jaw clenched. I could practically hear his blood pressure spiking. The process servers, noticing his distress, quickly offered a perfunctory apology and retreated to their vehicle.
“He wants to dismantle everything you put in place,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm despite the rising fear for Arthur.
Arthur let out a shaky breath, his shoulders trembling slightly. He looked at the documents in his hand, then back at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and deep hurt.
“He won’t succeed,” Arthur declared, though his voice wavered slightly. “Not while I still draw breath.”
But the cost of this fight was already visible, etched onto his strained face.
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