Chapter 7 - The Final Will
Marcus Croft cleared his throat, his eyes scanning the thick legal document before him.
The conference room was dead quiet. Christopher leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes greedy. Madeline held her breath, while Diane leaned in close to the glass table.
Sarah and Noah sat quietly near the back of the room, holding hands, asking for nothing.
"I, Eleanor Whitmore," Croft began reading in a clear, resonant voice, "being of sound mind and memory, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all prior wills and codicils made by me."
Croft turned the page.
"To my sister, Diane Whitmore," Croft read. "I leave the sum of fifty thousand dollars."
Diane gasped, her eyes flying open in absolute horror. "Fifty thousand?! That's a pittance! She had hundreds of millions! She promised me the Hamptons estate!"
Croft did not stop. He looked over the top of his glasses at Diane. "The will continues: 'To Diane: I leave you fifty thousand dollars so that you may pay off your immediate debts. For forty years, I supported you, paid your mortgages, and funded your lifestyle. Yet when I was dying, you came to my home only to count my silver. Fifty thousand is fifty thousand more than your loyalty ever earned.'"
Diane slumped back in her leather chair, her face bright red with humiliation and fury.
Christopher smirked slightly, leaning toward Madeline. She cut Aunt Diane out, he whispered. That means more for us.
Croft turned to the next page, his voice steady as iron.
"To my daughter, Madeline Whitmore," Croft read. "I leave my personal collection of costume jewelry, worth approximately twelve thousand dollars."
Madeline stood up so fast her chair knocked against the glass wall behind her. "WHAT?!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Costume jewelry?! I am her daughter! I am a Whitmore! Where is the Manhattan real estate?! Where is the art collection?!"
Croft read the attached personal note from Eleanor: "'To Madeline: You were too busy attending charity galas for strangers to visit your dying mother. You loved the appearance of wealth more than you ever loved the woman who gave you life. Wear the costume jewelry to your parties, Madeline. It matches the authenticity of your character.'"
Madeline collapsed back into her chair, clutching her chest, tears of pure rage ruining her makeup.
Christopher was sweating now. The smug smile had vanished completely from his face. His collar felt suddenly too tight around his neck.
"Mr. Croft..." Christopher stammered, his voice shaking. "What about me? What about the primary estate? I am her only son! I carry the Whitmore name!"
Croft looked directly at Christopher, his eyes cold and unforgiving.
"To my son, Christopher Whitmore," Croft read aloud. "I leave the sum of one dollar."
"ONE DOLLAR?!" Christopher shrieked, jumping to his feet, slamming both hands onto the mahogany table. "THIS IS A OUTRAGE! THIS IS FRAUD! SHE WAS MANIPULATED!"
Croft read the final note addressed to Christopher: "'To Christopher: You came to my home on my birthday without a single card or hug, demanding I sign over power of attorney so you could claim my fortune before my body was cold. You called an innocent eleven-year-old child 'trash' on my porch. You believe money makes a man powerful, Christopher. Here is one dollar. Prove it.'"
The room went dead silent, broken only by Madeline's hysterical sobbing and Christopher's heavy, ragged breathing.
Christopher turned his terrifying, murderous gaze toward Sarah and Noah sitting in the back.
"You," Christopher growled, pointing a trembling finger at the eleven-year-old boy. "You little street rat! You stole my inheritance! You coerced an old woman!"
"Sit down, Mr. Whitmore!" Croft barked, slamming his hand on the binder. "You have not heard the final clause!"
Christopher froze, shaking with rage, but remained standing.
Croft turned to the final page of the notarized document.
"Regarding the remainder of the estate," Croft read in a loud, echoing tone. "Including the Upper East Side townhouse, the Hamptons coastal estate, the art collection, the investment portfolios, and all liquid bank accounts, totaling three hundred and forty million dollars..."
Madeline looked up. Christopher leaned in.
"...I hereby place the entire three hundred and forty million dollars into the newly established Noah & Sarah Reed Irrevocable Living Trust."
Madeline choked out a gasp. Diane buried her face in her hands.
"Noah Reed," Croft continued, looking warmly at the young boy sitting in the back. "Is named the sole beneficiary of the trust. Sarah Reed is named the sole executor and legal guardian until Noah reaches twenty-one years of age. All properties, assets, and accounts are transferred to them effective immediately."
Sarah sat frozen, her hand over her mouth, tears flooding her eyes. Noah blinked, looking completely bewildered, holding his Jules Verne book tightly against his chest.
"THIS WILL NOT STAND!" Christopher roared, his face turning purple with rage. "WE ARE FILING AN IMMEDIATE LAWSUIT! WE WILL SUE YOU, CROFT! WE WILL SUE THESE BEGGARS UNTIL THEY HAVE NOTHING LEFT!"
Marcus Croft slowly closed the leather binder, stood up to his full height, and looked Christopher dead in the eye.
"You are welcome to try, Mr. Whitmore," Croft said with a cold, terrifying smile. "Eleanor Whitmore allocated ten million dollars into a separate legal defense trust, managed directly by my firm, for the sole purpose of fighting any legal challenge brought by you, your sister, or your aunt."
Croft leaned across the table toward Christopher.
"I have fifty senior trial attorneys on retainer, Mr. Whitmore. If you file one single lawsuit against Noah and Sarah Reed, I will personally tie up every asset you currently own in court for the next thirty years. You will be bankrupt before we even reach opening statements."
Christopher stared at Marcus Croft.
The reality of his mother's brilliant, bulletproof trap finally hit him.
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He was ruined. He had no money, no inheritance, and no legal leverage. He had spent his entire life waiting for his mother's fortune, only to end up with a single dollar bill lying on a glass table in front of him.
"Now," Croft said, gesturing to four large security guards who stepped into the conference room. "Escort Mr. Whitmore, Ms. Whitmore, and Mrs. Diane out of my building."
