The composure Russ had maintained finally cracked.
"Enough!" He wrenched my hands away. "If you weren't Harvey's nephew by blood, I'd have called the police on you for harassment long ago. Keep this up, and I won't be so lenient!"
George limped toward me, his voice weary. "Simon, I know this is hard to accept. Your uncle must have had his reasons. You're young—your future achievements might surpass his. Why torture yourself like this?"
"Why torture myself?" I stared at him in disbelief. "We're not talking about thousands or even millions. We're talking about a billion-dollar fortune—my uncle's entire life's work. Doesn't it strike you as strange that he suddenly changed his mind right before he died?" My gaze cut to Russ. "What do you have on them? What leverage?"
George's expression hardened. "Suspect what, exactly? Simon, your uncle is gone. I expect you to respect his final wishes."
Russ let out a cold laugh. "All this drama—you're trying to insinuate your uncle and I had some kind of sordid relationship, aren't you? He was your own flesh and blood, Simon. And you'd drag his name through the mud like this?"
Heat flooded my face. The shame of being exposed burned through me.
The servants and the family doctor exchanged glances, their eyes filled with contempt.
"Listen to him, all those high-minded words. He's just bitter someone else got the money. Calling his own uncle a deviant—disgusting!"
"If you ask me, Mr. Dickerson saw right through him years ago. That's why he cut him out. Ungrateful wretch."
"Mr. Dickerson raised him for twenty years like his own son. And this is the thanks he gets? Slander from beyond the grave. Shameful."
"Get out! Money-grubbing backstabber. You're dirtying our floor just standing there!"
A maid brandished her broom, sweeping furiously at my feet until I was backed against the doorway.
The humiliation crashed over me like a wave. My eyes burned as I scanned the room, my voice breaking.
"I'm not doing this for the inheritance! I just want to understand why. Was he in some kind of trouble? Did I do something wrong? Were twenty years of being father and son all a lie?"
My voice cracked. "Even if the truth turns out to be exactly what you say—that this was his choice—I'll accept it. But I can't keep living like this, in the dark, completely powerless!"
Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. George hobbled over, looking at me with something close to pity.
"Simon, stop overthinking this. If your uncle didn't love you, why would he have set up a trust fund in your name?"
I froze.
Uncle Harvey's dying words echoed back to me—his hand gripping mine, his voice barely a whisper.
"Simon, I've set aside a trust fund for you. A substantial one. Don't touch it unless you absolutely have to. The password... only the true heir would know."
I'd been too grief-stricken to process what he meant.
I'd assumed it was just a safety net—his way of protecting me if my business failed.
But now I understood. He'd been preparing for something. He'd seen this coming.
My gaze locked onto Russ, sharp as a blade.
"One last time, Russ. Come to the bank with me. Prove you're really the heir."
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he scoffed.
"Fine. I'll go. But when they confirm I'm the legitimate heir, you—Simon Abbott—will never show your face in front of me again."
I didn't hesitate. "Done."
We arrived at the bank and were escorted to the Trust Department.
Evelyn Parker, the trust manager, approached carrying a safe-deposit box with careful hands.
"This box contains the trust documents Mr. Harvey Dickerson established for Mr. Simon Abbott," she explained, "along with a trust fund card. The withdrawal password and the box combination are known only to the heir."
