Damian’s voice echoed through the room.
« Finally, old man. Just three more days and I’ll be gone, and I’ll be rich. »
The sentence hung in the sterile air, now that it was no longer whispered, even uglier.
Samuel turned pale.
“Your own son,” he whispered.
« I don’t have time to be shocked, » I said. « What do we have? Two hours before anyone notices? »
“More or less,” Henry confirmed.
« Then let’s go. »
Dr. Reeves was the first to approach the bedside.
« I need to assess your competence, » she said. « Name, date, location. »
I have answered every question clearly.
She examined my pupils, my reflexes, and my ability to follow reasoning. She asked me if I understood the nature and consequences of changing my will.
“I understand it better now than ever,” I said.
She wrote her conclusion in neat and clear letters: The patient is fully oriented and competent to sign testamentary documents.
She signed and stamped the form.
Samuel opened his laptop.
“Tell me what you want to do,” he said.
I didn’t hesitate for a moment.
« Everything, » I said. « Every property. Every stock. Every account. Every car, every watch, every piece of art. It all comes down to Harper Ashford. »
Harper instinctively brought his hand to his mouth.
« Mr. Blackwell, no, » she protested. « I can’t accept this… »
« You can, » I said. « And you will. Twenty-five years of loyalty make you a closer member of the family than my blood relatives would ever want to be. »
Samuel typed on the keyboard, the keys clicking softly.
“And what about Damian?” he asked.
« One dollar, » I said. « And a sealed letter that I’ll dictate to you in a moment. »
Samuel looked up from the screen. « One dollar? »
I was reminded of that framed dollar bill, a gift from my father.
« He wanted my fortune, » I said. « He only gets a dollar. Let him remember its true value. »
There was one piece left.
I added that we needed to set aside $30 million to establish the Blackwell Legacy Center, a nonprofit organization for people who can’t afford cancer treatment. Full coverage. No hidden costs. No nasty surprises in the fine print.
Henry’s gaze softened.
“That represents half of your wealth,” said Samuel.
“That’s the half that might really matter,” I replied.
Samuel worked for forty minutes, while his assistant Rachel, who had been awakened by a phone call, filmed everything for safety. At 1:30 PM, he printed the documents.
Philip read the will aloud, section by section. Harper signed where necessary, his hand trembling.
I signed last.
For the first time that night my hand shook, not from fear, but from a feeling close to relief.
Philip had the signatures authenticated. A nurse from another floor testified; she was drowsy, but alert enough to follow the instructions. Dr. Reeves added his competency assessment.
Samuel looked at the clock.
« It’s two o’clock in the morning, » he said. « Dennis, this will is incontestable. No court in the land can declare it invalid. »
« Okay, » I said. « Get out of here before someone starts asking me why there’s a meeting in my room in the middle of the night. »
They left in silence.
Harper paused on the threshold and turned around.
“Thank you,” I said to him.
She understood the meaning of these words and agreed.
The will has been drawn up.
My inheritance was established.
There was nothing left to do but die.
Or at least to make people believe I did it.
The next two days passed in a strange state of waiting.
November 2. November 3.
Damian came twice a day, visibly worried and frowning in the presence of the nurses. When he thought he was alone, he nervously tapped his fingers against the bedside and stared at his watch.
Henry entered the room after every exam.
« He’s still holding on, » he told Damian. « But it’s close. It could happen at any moment. »
On the morning of November 4, as the first gray rays of light filtered through the blinds, Henry entered alone.
“Ready?” he asked.
“As always,” I replied.
At 6:45 a.m. he disconnected the monitors.
The heart rate curve flattened out on the screen.
At 6:47 a.m., he pressed the alarm button. The nurses rushed over and demonstrated resuscitation techniques in front of everyone present.
At half past six, Henry’s voice sounded calm and solemn.
« Time of death, » he announced, « 6:47 a.m. on November 4, 2025. Cause: Multiple organ failure due to end-stage liver disease. »
He signed the certificate.
In reality, I was already being transported to a service corridor, my oxygen mask still on, and an inconspicuous van was waiting for me at the loading dock.
At 7:15, Harper had called Damian.
« I’m so sorry, » she said. « He’s gone. »
Damian rushed to the hospital, stood over the surrogate body Henry had arranged through legal channels, and burst into tears.
Henry noticed the slight movement at the corner of her mouth.
He knew the difference between sadness and relief.
Two days later they held a memorial service in a small chapel.
About thirty people showed up: employees, friends, and a few competitors who wanted to make sure I was really out of the race.
In the foreground, an American flag, folded in a military style, lay on a table covered with a white tablecloth.
Harper shed real tears.
Damian gave an impeccable eulogy.
“My father was my hero,” he said, his voice breaking at points.
Vivian wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
I watched the live broadcast from a small apartment in Coral Gables that Samuel had rented through a private limited company. The Atlantic Ocean shimmered in the distance through the balcony window.
If I hadn’t heard the confessions with my own ears in the hospital, I might have believed my son.
Almost.
On November 6 at 10 o’clock in the morning the real drama started.
The reading of the will.
Samuel’s meeting room smelled of coffee and printer ink. Damian arrived in a black suit, with a sharp jaw and bright red eyes. Vivian walked beside him, dressed in an elegant black dress, her hand in his.
Harper sat at the end of the table, small but confident.
Samuel opened a file.
“This is the will of Dennis Blackwell, executed on November 3, 2025,” he began.
Damian frowned. « November 3rd? That was the day before… »
« The day before he died, » Samuel concluded calmly. « Yes. Your father was capable of that, as is recorded here. » He tapped Dr. Reeves’s assessment.
He read out the provisions.
« To my son, Damian Blackwell, I leave a dollar and a sealed letter. »
Damian jumped to his feet.
« One dollar? » he exclaimed. « That’s ridiculous. That’s impossible. »
Samuel continued.
« The remainder of my assets, including but not limited to all of my real estate, business interests, accounts, vehicles, securities, and personal effects, I bequeath to my long-time collaborator and friend, Harper Ashford. »
There was a silence in the room.
« The cleaning lady? » Damian shouted, turning to her as if she’d stolen from him personally. « Do you really believe me that my father left sixty million dollars to the cleaning lady? »
Harper backed away.
Samuel slid a tablet onto the table.
« First, » he said, « she’s not the housekeeper. She’s the primary beneficiary. Second, here’s a video of the signing of the will, where an independent physician confirms your father’s mental state. Third, here’s the notarized document itself. »
He laid out the documents one by one: Dr. Reeves’ report, Philip’s seal, the signatures of the witnesses.
Damian picked up one of the pages and read it as if the words could change if he stared at them long enough.
« I dispute that, » he snapped. « You manipulated him. » He pointed at Harper. « You turned him against me. »
The irony of this choice of words hung in the air between us, even though I witnessed the scene thanks to a hidden camera Samuel had installed in a corner of the room.
« Mr. Blackwell, » Samuel said calmly, « you have no grounds for this. Your father’s intentions are clear, his capacity is documented, and his signature is authenticated. You are, of course, free to spend money on legal fees. But you will lose. »
Vivian tugged on Damian’s sleeve.
« We will fight, my love, » she murmured. « We will find a solution. »
Damian looked angrily around the room and then stormed out.
Vivian quickly followed him.
Through the camera lens, I saw my son—a man who had grown up in a house where no one had ever worried about rent, groceries, or anything else—walking down that hallway as if the floor had fallen out from beneath his feet.
I was reminded of that framed dollar bill.
A quote from my father: Never sell your soul for that.
My son had tried exactly that.
And now all that was left for him was to solve that problem on paper.
A.
Damian was missing for five days after the reading of the will.
Samuel called me every evening to update me on legal matters.
« He’s furious, » Samuel said. « He’s telling anyone who will listen that Harper manipulated your sick mind. He’s already consulted three different lawyers. None of them will take the case. »
“Keep watching,” I said.
On November 11, Samuel’s tone changed.
« He’s no longer considering legal action, » he said. « He’s hired a private detective agency, as well as two people known to Hialeah. He’s trying to put pressure on him. »
The part of me that still wanted to protect my son tensed.
The part of me that remembered his whispers over my hospital bed remained intact.
« This is our chance, » I said. « It’s time to call Frank. »
Frank Dalton had been an FBI agent long enough to have seen the worst aspects of humanity. Our paths had crossed years earlier during an investigation into embezzlement in one of my buildings.
He picked up after two rings.
« Dalton. »
« Frank. It’s Blackwell. »
There was a long silence.
« Dennis? » he said. « You hear… »
« Gone. I know, » I said. « Not me. My son and his girlfriend changed my treatment. I have proof. But I had to see how far he would go. »
I told him everything. The pills. The test results. The hospital report. The reading of the will. The hired henchmen.
« So, if I understand correctly, » Frank finally said, « you’re alive, the whole world thinks you’re dead, and your son is now so desperate that he’s taking his frustration out on the woman who inherited your fortune. »
« That’s right. »
“And what do you want me to do?”
« Caught red-handed, » I said. « Let’s protect Harper. This must be absolutely final and without appeal. »
Frank sighed. « I can’t ignore confessions like the ones you describe, » he said. « I need copies. But if he crosses another line, we’ll be there when it happens. »
For the next forty-eight hours, the Bureau discreetly monitored Harper’s home and daily activities. She refused to leave the city.
« It’s my life, » she declared. « I won’t let him change my mind. »
To maintain a safe distance, I stayed in my apartment in Coral Gables, staring out at the water and counting the days instead of the dollars.
On the evening of November 11, Harper left his home to go grocery shopping at a local store—a typical American activity on a cool Miami evening.
On the other side of the parking lot were already parked two unmarked sedans with FBI agents aboard.
Jake Morrison and Chris Bowen, a former soldier now working as a private security guard, discreetly followed in another SUV. Samuel had placed them under Harper’s protection as backup.
« Just five more minutes, » Harper said as he crossed the asphalt. « I’ll be right back. »
The parking lot was half empty. Sodium vapor lamps bathed everything in a yellowish light.
Damian emerged from behind a concrete pillar located at the rear.
Vivian sat next to him, a stack of folded papers and a small folded knife in her hand.
“We need to talk,” Damian said, walking over to Harper.
Harper froze.
“Stay away from me,” she said, her voice trembling.
Vivian opened the knife, not aimed directly at Harper, but close enough.
« Sign the papers, » Vivian said. « Give back what you stole. »
Damian handed the documents to Harper.
« It’s simple, » he said. « You renounce the inheritance. You declare that my father was not of sound mind. You acknowledge that you abused his position. You sign, and we’re off. »
« I didn’t steal anything, » Harper replied. « Your father knew exactly what he was doing. He let me do it because he knew who you were. »
Damian grabbed her by the collar and threw her against the concrete wall.
« You’re nothing, » he hissed. « Just a happy cleaning lady. »
See more on the next page
Advertisement
