They thought they had already won the moment I walked into that courtroom. My parents, the people who cut me off at 18, tossed me into the world with nothing but a suitcase and a warning, “You’re on your own now.” Yet here they were, sitting in the front row, dressed in smug grins and expensive arrogance, waiting for my grandfather’s will to confirm what they believed was inevitable, that everything would pass through them through their control, and I’d once again be the dependent child they could bend to their will. I didn’t
look at them. Not at first. I wanted them to sweat in silence before the blade fell. Backstory. When I was a kid, I used to think love was unconditional. I thought parents were supposed to protect you, not discard you like a bad investment. But I learned early that my worth in their eyes wasn’t measured in love. It was measured in leverage.
At 18, the moment my trust fund dried up, so did their affection. My calls went unanswered. Holidays were spent alone. They told relatives I was finding my way. When the truth was simpler, I wasn’t profitable to them anymore. My grandfather was the only one who never turned his back on me. He’d built his empire from dirt and grit, and he saw through their greed long before I did.
When he died, I expected nothing. A quiet inheritance, maybe enough to keep me afloat. But then the lawyer called. The will is unusual. You should be there in person. I arrived at the courthouse to find my parents already waiting, dressed like they were attending a coronation, not a funeral proceeding. My mother leaned in with a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
“Of course, darling,” she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. “We’ll manage it all for you. 5 billion is far too much for someone your age.” Her words weren’t a question. They were an assumption. That was the moment my suspicion hardened into certainty. This wasn’t grief for them. It was a business meeting.
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