Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Wolves
Eleanor West passed away three days later, just as the first snow of December began to blanket the estate. She died quietly, her hand held by Molly on one side and Clayton on the other. In her final hours, she hadn't asked for her lawyers, her board members, or her extended family. She had only looked at Molly and whispered, “Don't let them change what we talked about.”
The funeral was a grand, public affair, a spectacle of high society grief that disgusted Clayton to his core. Hundreds of people in black designer coats poured into the Greenwich cathedral, offering him hollow condolences while calculating the shift in power within West Industries.
The real war, however, began back at the estate during the reading of the will.
The grand library was filled with the remaining members of the West bloodline. Foremost among them were Richard West, Clayton’s older cousin, a man with a smooth, political smile and a reputation for expensive tastes, and Julian Cross, who sat in the corner looking excessively anxious, his fingers drumming against his leather briefcase.
The family attorney, Arthur Pendelton, adjusted his spectacles and opened the heavy leather binder.
“As per the final codicil executed by Eleanor West approximately three weeks prior to her passing,” Pendelton began, his voice dry and neutral, “the distribution of the primary estate remains largely unchanged, with Clayton West retaining eighty percent of West Industries voting shares. However... regarding the West Philanthropic Foundation and the personal liquid assets totaling four hundred million dollars...”
Richard leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Get to the point, Arthur. My aunt told me she was restructuring the foundation’s governance.”
Pendelton cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “The West Philanthropic Foundation, along with its physical real estate holdings and the remaining liquid capital, has been placed into an irrevocable blind trust. The primary executor and sole trustee appointed to manage these funds is... Miss Molly Hart.”
The room erupted into total chaos.
Richard slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, standing up so quickly his chair overturned. “This is an absolute farce! Molly Hart? The girl who scrubs the toilets? My aunt was completely out of her mind! She was drugged on painkillers, delirious, and being manipulated by a common fortune-hunter!”
Julian Cross stood up as well, his face pale but his voice sharp with venom. “I can testify to her mental state, Arthur. As her care coordinator, I have records showing Eleanor was suffering from severe cognitive decline during her final month. This maid spent hours alone with her, shutting out the medical staff. This is a clear case of undue influence and elder abuse!”
Clayton sat at the head of the table, his face a completely unreadable mask of stone. He looked across the room to where Molly stood by the door, still wearing a simple black dress from the funeral. She looked small against the towering bookshelves, but she didn't look broken. She looked exactly like she had the night she cut his mother’s hair: brave enough to stand in the storm.
“Clayton, say something!” Richard demanded, turning on his cousin. “This girl just stole half your family’s legacy right out from under you! We need to file an immediate injunction, contest the codicil, and have her arrested for fraud!”
Clayton slowly rose from his chair. The room fell silent, everyone waiting for the billionaire tycoon to unleash his immense legal and financial power to crush the intruder.
Clayton walked past his cousins, stopped directly in front of Molly, and looked down at her. “Did you know about this?”
Molly looked up at him, her brown eyes completely transparent. “She told me she was going to do it the night we cut her hair, Mr. West. I told her not to. I told her it would turn your family into wolves. But she said... she said it was the only way to make sure the money went to the people who actually needed it, instead of funding your cousins’ offshore accounts.”
A collective gasp echoed through the room. Clayton turned back to look at Richard and Julian, his eyes turning to ice. “Arthur, freeze the foundation’s operational accounts effective immediately. No one touches a single dollar until I complete an independent audit.”
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“Clayton, you can't believe this maid over your own blood!” Richard shouted.
“My blood has been lying to me for eight months,” Clayton said coldly. “Let's see what the books have to say.”
