By three, Ronald’s attorney requested an emergency meeting.
By six, Priscilla’s charity board removed her pending gala chair position.
And by sunset, Ronald Cobb discovered the final document my grandfather had left behind.
The one even I hadn’t known existed.
Part 7: The Clause in My Grandfather’s Will
Victor called me at 7:18 that evening.
His voice was different.
Not alarmed.
Not exactly.
But careful in the way lawyers become careful when they are holding a grenade with beautiful handwriting.
“Lexi,” he said, “you need to come to my office.”
I looked out at the ocean, now dark beyond the glass.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Ronald?”
“Indirectly.”
That was how I found myself in Victor’s conference room an hour later, seated beneath soft recessed lights while rain streaked down the windows.
Mara was there.
So was Mr. Harrison, the executive chairman, who had flown in quietly from Palm Beach. He was eighty-two, thin, elegant, and still had the kind of presence that made powerful people sit straighter.
