The humiliation crashed over me like a wave. My eyes burned as I scanned the room, my voice breaking.
"I'm not doing this for the inheritance! I just want to understand why. Was he in some kind of trouble? Did I do something wrong? Were twenty years of being father and son all a lie?"
My voice cracked. "Even if the truth turns out to be exactly what you say—that this was his choice—I'll accept it. But I can't keep living like this, in the dark, completely powerless!"
Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. George hobbled over, looking at me with something close to pity.
"Simon, stop overthinking this. If your uncle didn't love you, why would he have set up a trust fund in your name?"
I froze.
Uncle Harvey's dying words echoed back to me—his hand gripping mine, his voice barely a whisper.
"Simon, I've set aside a trust fund for you. A substantial one. Don't touch it unless you absolutely have to. The password... only the true heir would know."
I'd been too grief-stricken to process what he meant.
I'd assumed it was just a safety net—his way of protecting me if my business failed.
But now I understood. He'd been preparing for something. He'd seen this coming.
My gaze locked onto Russ, sharp as a blade.
"One last time, Russ. Come to the bank with me. Prove you're really the heir."
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he scoffed.
"Fine. I'll go. But when they confirm I'm the legitimate heir, you—Simon Abbott—will never show your face in front of me again."
I didn't hesitate. "Done."
We arrived at the bank and were escorted to the Trust Department.
Evelyn Parker, the trust manager, approached carrying a safe-deposit box with careful hands.
"This box contains the trust documents Mr. Harvey Dickerson established for Mr. Simon Abbott," she explained, "along with a trust fund card. The withdrawal password and the box combination are known only to the heir."
He gestured politely toward Russ. "Please, Mr. Finch."
Russ walked to the safe. His head turned left, then tilted right—checking that no one stood close enough to see. Then he raised his left hand, pinky finger lifted, and pressed his index finger to the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The electronic tones filled the room, each one tightening the invisible wire around my chest. My palms were slick with sweat. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.