My grip on the will tightened until my knuckles went white. Cold sweat dripped onto the paper, blurring the characters of my own name—Simon Abbott, heir—until they were barely legible.
Uncle Harvey never married. Never had children. When my parents died in that accident—I was only two—he took me in and raised me as his own.
I grew up at his side. He enrolled me in the most prestigious schools. Gave me every advantage money could buy. Before I'd even finished university, he brought me into the company, teaching me everything he knew about running an empire.
He'd defied his own brother to name me his sole heir. Victor Dickerson had fought him tooth and nail, but Uncle Harvey hadn't budged. Not a single cent went to his own nephew by blood.
It had torn the family apart.
A man who loved me that fiercely would never give his fortune to someone I'd never even met.
Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.
I forced myself to calm down. Turned to the attorney.
"I want to see the video. The one from when the will was signed."
Notarized wills required witnesses—at least two notaries, an attorney, a financial officer, a physician. They had to verify that the testator was lucid, acting of their own free will, and that the contents reflected their true wishes.
Uncle Harvey must have been coerced. There was no other explanation.
I fixed my gaze on Russ, searching for any flicker of guilt, any hint of panic.
Nothing. His composure didn't waver.
He pulled up the video without a word.
I watched it without blinking. From the first frame to the last, my uncle was completely coherent. Alert. Himself.
And at the very end, when he signed his name, he pressed down so hard the pen tore through the paper.
My mind went white.
How?
How is this possible?
There had to be something. Some trick I was missing.
I lunged forward and grabbed Charles Finch by the collar, yanking him close.
"You tampered with the video, didn't you? Your surname is Finch, and so is his—you two are in this together, scheming to steal my uncle's inheritance!"
Charles Finch's expression shifted, but he maintained his composure. "Mr. Abbott, I understand you're upset. However, this was Mr. Dickerson's own decision. If you have doubts, I suggest you contact the police or pursue legal channels. Violence won't solve anything."
I released him and immediately dialed 911.