Chapter 8 - The Will of the King
Arthur Sterling cleared his throat, stepping to the head of Harrison Whitmore’s casket. He adjusted his spectacles, pulled a leather binder from his briefcase, and opened it before the remaining witnesses.
“Before we commit Harrison Whitmore to the earth,” Arthur announced, his voice carrying the full weight of the law, “it is my duty to read the operative clause of his final last will and testament, revised and executed thirty days prior to his passing.”
Grant slowly pulled himself up from the ground, leaning heavily against the granite marker of his grandfather’s grave, looking broken, hollowed out, and exhausted.
“To my son, Grant Whitmore,” Arthur read aloud, “I leave the sum of one dollar, and the memory of the night he cast out his honor.”
A collective intake of breath swept through the remaining board members.
“The entirety of the Whitmore Maritime voting stock—totaling sixty-four percent of the enterprise—along with the family estate, the offshore shipping leases, and the family trust funds valued in excess of three point four billion dollars, are hereby transferred into the *Whitmore Children’s Irrevocable Heritage Trust*.”
Arthur looked over the top of his glasses directly at me.
“The sole trustee, with absolute, unilateral executive voting authority over the entire Whitmore enterprise until the youngest child reaches the age of twenty-five, is Major Savannah Cole.”
Arthur closed the binder with a sharp snap.
“Furthermore,” Arthur continued, looking at the stunned board members, “the codicil stipulates that should Grant Whitmore attempt to contest this distribution, the entirety of his personal holdings, including his executive shares, will be automatically liquidated and donated to the United States Army Family Relief Fund.”
Grant didn’t even flinch at the loss of his fortune. He didn't care about the billions. He didn't care about the board members who were already turning their backs on him to look at me with newfound deference.
He looked only at the five children.
“Savannah,” Grant whispered, his voice trembling. “Keep the money. Keep the ships, the house, the estate. Take it all. I don’t want a single penny. Just… please. Just let me be their father. Let me know them. Let me earn one minute with them.”
The wind blew across the open lawn, rustling the black skirts of my daughters' dresses. The children looked up at me, waiting for my command.
For ten years, I had dreamed of this moment. In the darkest nights in foreign deserts, I had imagined crushing Grant Whitmore under the weight of his own arrogance. I had imagined watching him beg and turning my back with cold, triumphant spite.
Yet standing there, looking at this shattered man kneeling in the Georgia mud, I felt no joy. I felt only the heavy, quiet sorrow of what should have been.
Revenge tastes like ash. Only justice brings peace.
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“Arthur,” I said, turning to the attorney. “Proceed with the burial. Harrison has waited long enough to rest.”
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