Chapter 3 - The Secret Inheritance
Three weeks passed.
Emily remained in a fragile, unresponsive state, though her vitals were slowly stabilizing. Their son, whom Ethan had named Leo, was still in an incubator, surrounded by tubes and wires, fighting for every breath. Ethan hadn't left the hospital. He slept on a plastic chair, showered in the staff bathroom, and kept his laptop on his knees, working remotely just enough to ensure his architectural projects didn't collapse. He needed every penny for the mounting medical bills.
He had completely cut off his family.
Linda had tried to call him a hundred times. His sisters had sent angry, desperate texts, threatening to sue him, threatening to expose him to the media as an abusive son who abandoned his family. Ethan ignored them all. He had blocked their numbers and instructed hospital security to bar them from the premises.
But on a Tuesday afternoon, a man in a sharp grey suit walked into the hospital waiting room. He wasn't a doctor. He was Arthur Pendelton, the senior partner of Pendelton & Associates—the law firm that had handled Ethan’s late father’s estate.
"Ethan," Arthur said softly, sitting in the chair next to him. "I've been trying to reach you at your office. I heard about Emily and the baby. I am so deeply sorry."
"Thanks, Arthur," Ethan said, his voice hollow. "If you're here about my family's threats to sue me for cutting off their allowance, save your breath. They don't have a legal leg to stand on."
Arthur adjusted his glasses, looking around the room before leaning in closer. "Actually, Ethan... I'm here because of a massive legal discrepancy that has just come to light. And it involves your family. Specifically, your mother."
Ethan frowned, turning his full attention to the lawyer. "What are you talking about?"
"When your father passed away five years ago, you were told that he died completely bankrupt, correct? That he left behind nothing but debt, and that it was your duty to provide for your mother and sisters?"
"Yes," Ethan said, his brow furrowing. "My mother showed me the bank statements. Dad had bad investments. I took over the family burden because there was nothing left."
Arthur shook his head, a look of profound disgust on his face. "Ethan... that was a lie. A meticulously orchestrated lie by your mother."
Ethan froze. "What?"
Arthur pulled a thick manila folder from his leather briefcase and handed it to Ethan. "Your father didn't die broke. He had a private, ironclad trust fund worth four point five million dollars, specifically allocated for you, your sisters, and a life insurance policy that paid out directly to Linda."
Ethan’s hands began to shake as he flipped through the documents. He saw his father’s signature. He saw the trust fund details.
"According to your father’s true will," Arthur explained, "the four point five million dollars was supposed to be split. Two million for you, and the rest divided among your sisters when they turned twenty-five. But there was a clause: Linda would manage the funds until you turned thirty."
"I'm thirty-two, Arthur," Ethan whispered, his chest tightening. "I never saw a single penny of this."
"Because your mother forged your signature on a waiver when you turned thirty," Arthur said, delivering the crushing blow. "She transferred the entirety of the trust into a private offshore account under her name. She hid the money. She made you believe you were broke so that you would work yourself to the bone to support their luxury lifestyle, while she kept millions stashed away for herself."
Ethan stared at the forged signature on the document. It was a flawless copy of his handwriting, executed by the woman who gave birth to him.
She hadn't just used him. She had stolen his youth. She had stolen his peace. She had forced him to work eighty hours a week, creating the very environment of exhaustion that led to Emily’s collapse and his son’s premature birth—all while sitting on a secret fortune.
"Why?" Ethan choked out, a tear of pure betrayal slipping down his face. "Why would she do that to her own son?"
"Because as long as you felt guilty and responsible, you would keep building your architectural career and funding her immediate expenses, leaving her secret millions untouched to accumulate interest," Arthur said. "She used your love for your father as a weapon against you."
Ethan closed the folder. The sorrow in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold, dark, and utterly lethal.
"Arthur," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Can we prove the forgery in court?"
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"Without a doubt," Arthur replied. "We have the forensic handwriting analysis ready."
"Good," Ethan stood up, looking through the glass window at his tiny son fighting for life in the NICU. "Don't just file a civil lawsuit. Call the District Forgery division. I want my mother in handcuffs."
