I am the Heir

"Your father's estate has been settled," my stepmother, Monica, announced as we gathered in the living room. She sat on the red velvet sofa with her chin tilted up, looking less like a grieving widow and more like a queen issuing a royal decree. "You're an adult, Dominic. You don't have expenses. Your father's life insurance and savings—all $3 million of it—will go to my two sons. Besides, Dylan is still in college; he has much higher costs to cover."

I already knew this was coming. Every cent of my father's hard work was destined for their pockets.

"It's fine. Take it all," I replied coldly. "I only came here to lay my father to rest."

A heavy, frigid silence filled the room that used to feel so warm when Dad was alive.

"I'm glad you're being reasonable, Dominic," Monica said, her tone shifting to a syrupy sweetness that made my skin crawl. "I didn't want any drama on such a somber day. Besides, you have that job at the auto shop, right? That should be plenty to keep you fed."

I didn't give her the satisfaction of an answer. Inside my jacket pocket, my fists were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. I looked around the room. Dad wasn't a billionaire, but that $3 million represented decades of grind as a small business owner. And now, that money was going to fund the high-end lifestyle Dylan had always craved.

"I only want one thing," I said quietly, breaking through their smugness. "The wooden watch on Dad's desk. My biological mother gave that to him."

Monica glanced at Dylan, who snapped back dismissively, "Oh, I sold that at the flea market yesterday. It was junk—didn't even run. Anyway, everything in this house is considered part of the shared inventory now."

My heart skipped a beat. A slow burn of rage crept up from my stomach to my chest, hot and suffocating. But I held it back.

"I see," I muttered. I stood up. "Then there's nothing left to talk about."

I walked toward the door without looking back. Behind me, I could already hear them whispering, planning vacations or shopping for new cars. The emotions I'd suppressed since the funeral service that morning were reaching a breaking point. I felt betrayed—not because of the money, but because of how easily they had erased my existence from my father's life. It was as if I'd been nothing more than a houseguest for the ten years they lived here.

I hopped on my bike and pulled on my helmet. I was just about to kick the engine over when the phone in my pocket buzzed with a long vibration.

I ignored it. Probably a wrong number for one of Monica's credit card bills or a text from the shop. But it buzzed again. And again.

Frustrated, I pulled it out and looked at the screen. An unknown number. I swiped the green button with a sense of unease.

"Hello?"

"Hello, am I speaking with Dominic Haughland?" The voice on the other end was formal, deep, and carried a weight of authority.

"This is he. Who's calling?"

"My name is Mr. Sterling. I've been Albert's private attorney for many years. I wanted to offer my deepest condolences for your loss."

I froze. An attorney? As far as I knew, Dad never dealt with complex legal matters. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I have some vital documents that must be delivered to you in person. This concerns a confidential will—one known only to myself and your father. It regards his primary assets, which were never recorded in his standard bank accounts."

My heart began to hammer against my ribs. "Primary assets? My stepmother told me everything had already been distributed."

A dry chuckle came from the other end. "What was discussed in that living room today was merely the 'crumbs' meant to ensure your safety, Dominic. Your father knew exactly who he married. He wanted you to receive what is rightfully yours at the right time, without interference."

I was speechless.

"Can we meet this afternoon at The Red Oak Cafe at five? I have all the paperwork ready, including the deeds to several commercial real estate properties and the key to a private vault," Mr. Sterling continued.

I glanced at the clock on my bike's dashboard. 4:30 PM.

"Yes, sir. I'm on my way."

I hung up the phone and felt the wind shift.