But my years away had taught me patience and strategy—qualities Vivien couldn’t anticipate. I didn’t react with anger. Instead, I handed the lawyer a document, a hidden ace that my stepmother hadn’t seen coming. It was a letter, written in my father’s hand, dated just a week before his passing. It read, “To my son Lucian, my firstborn and my heart, I leave equal ownership to my legacy, hoping you will find the peace and closure denied to us in life.”

As the lawyer’s eyes scanned the words, Vivien’s smug smile faltered and then vanished altogether. The room plunged into silence, her composure cracking like ice beneath a sudden thaw.

“Is this—” she began, voice trembling with disbelief as she reached for the document, eyes wide with a mix of horror and rage.