Chapter 2 - The Reading of the Will
My legs felt like lead as I walked down the pulpit steps and sat in the cold wooden front pew. My heart was pounding so loudly against my ribs I was certain the entire room could hear it.
Four point two billion dollars.
My mind spun backward through seven years of frozen winters—of Richard patched up his own boots with duct tape, of us boiling water on the stove when the pipes froze, of him staring at old ledger books under the yellow light of a single kerosene lamp. He had owned an empire, yet he had lived like a man clinging to the bare edges of existence. Why?
Clara and her sons practically trampled each other trying to move into the front pews, taking seats directly across the aisle from me. Clara was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed with a feverish, desperate excitement. Her eyes were fixed on the blue folder in Pendelton's hands like a hungry wolf staring at a piece of raw meat.
"Mr. Pendelton," Clara interrupted, her hands trembling as she adjusted her pearl necklace. "As Richard’s eldest surviving child, I should inform you that my father was not in his right mind during his final months. He was isolated, cranky, and clearly suffering from cognitive decline. If he made major changes to his estate recently, it was obviously under undue influence."
She shot a venomous glance across the aisle straight at me.
Pendelton didn't even blink. He adjusted his half-moon reading glasses and looked down over the top of the paper.
"Mrs. Vance," Pendelton said, his tone dripping with professional disdain, "your father underwent three independent neurological evaluations conducted by the heads of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins and Columbia University seventy-two hours prior to signing this document. All three specialists certified him to be of exceptionally sharp mind and absolute testamentary capacity. If you intend to challenge this will on grounds of incompetence, I suggest you retain a legal team capable of fighting three federal affidavits."
Clara’s lips pressed into a tight, white line, but she said nothing more.
Pendelton cleared his throat, his voice filling the cavernous space of the church.
"I, Richard Arthur Sterling, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all prior wills and codicils made by me."
He skipped past the standard legal boilerplate, his finger sliding down the thick parchment until he reached the primary devises.
"To my daughter, Clara Sterling Vance," Pendelton read, "I leave the sum of one hundred thousand dollars."
Clara gasped, springing halfway out of her seat. "One hundred thousand?! Out of four billion dollars?! That's an insult! I am his daughter!"
"Sit down, Mrs. Vance," Pendelton said sharply, without looking up. "I have not finished reading the clause."
He continued: "I leave Clara this sum on the express condition that she use it to pay off the fraudulent secondary mortgage she placed on her mother's cottage in 2018—a debt she lied to me about for six years while begging for handouts. Should she attempt to contest this will in any court of law, this bequest shall be revoked instantly, and the full evidence of her mortgage fraud will be forwarded directly to the District Attorney."
Clara gasped, dropping back onto the pew as if she had been slapped. Her sons looked at her in shock, but she stared at the floor, her hands shaking violently.
"To my grandsons, Julian Vance and Vance Vance," Pendelton read on, his tone steady and merciless, "I leave the sum of fifty thousand dollars each. This money is to be held in trust, released only upon their completion of a three-year accredited vocational trade program or five years of continuous full-time employment. I leave them this not out of affection, but in the vain hope that they might learn the value of a day's labor—a concept both have successfully avoided for their entire adult lives."
Julian’s face flushed dark red. "This is a joke! The old bastard is mocking us from beyond the grave!"
"Quiet, Julian!" Clara hissed, clutching his forearm, her eyes darting nervously toward the two heavy-set security guards standing by the church exit.
Pendelton turned the page with a crisp, decisive snap. The room grew so quiet that the whistling of the wind against the stained glass sounded like a whisper.
"Regarding the residual estate," Pendelton read, his voice taking on a lower, richer tone, "including all shares of Sterling Global Logistics, all real property, domestic and international banking accounts, investment portfolios, maritime vessels, and personal trust holdings..."
He paused, looking up from the paper. His dark eyes locked directly onto mine.
"I leave the entirety of my residual estate—valued at four billion, two hundred and eighty million dollars—to my granddaughter, Elizabeth Bennett."
The words hung in the cold air of the church like striking lightning.
I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
"Me?" I whispered, the word barely escaping my throat.
"You, Elizabeth," Pendelton confirmed softly. He read directly from the text written in my grandfather's own voice: "To Elizabeth, who stood beside me in the mud when everyone else fled. Who earned her bread without complaint, who learned the truth of labor, and who proved to me that my daughter Sarah's blood still carried honor, strength, and love. You are the sole steward of the Sterling name. Use it to build what they tried to destroy."
"NO!" Clara shrieked, springing up from the pew, her hands clawing at the air. "NO! THIS IS FRAUD! She manipulated him! She kept him isolated on that farm for seven years! She forced him to sign this! I will sue you, Elizabeth! I will drag you through every court in this country until you don't have a single penny left!"
Julian and Vance stood up beside her, their faces twisted with rage, stepping toward the aisle toward me.
Before they could take two steps, the two private security guards moved forward, their heavy frames blocking the aisle completely.
"Mrs. Vance," Pendelton said, calmly closing the blue folder and placing it back into his briefcase. "Your father anticipated your reaction. In accordance with Section 14 of his estate trust, any physical threat, verbal harassment, or legal challenge mounted by you or your sons against Elizabeth Bennett will trigger an immediate, irrevocable asset freeze of your trust allowances, alongside the execution of criminal filings currently held in escrow with the state prosecutor."
Pendelton locked his briefcase with two sharp clicks.
"The farm is hers. The empire is hers. You have one hour to pack your personal items from your father's guest house in town before the security team changes the locks. Good day, Mrs. Vance."
Clara stared at Pendelton, then at the security guards, and finally at me. The hatred in her eyes was so hot it felt like a physical weight.
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"You think you won, Elizabeth?" she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "You think a girl who spent seven years slopping hogs can run a multi-billion-dollar empire? They will devour you alive. And when you fall, I'll be there to take everything."
She turned on her heel and marched out of the church, her sons trailing behind her like defeated shadows. The heavy double doors slammed shut behind them, leaving only the sound of the howling winter wind outside.
