Six Manhattan lofts.
I hated even thinking about it. But Gideon had planned carefully. He had made sure I would never have to depend on anyone—especially not my own family.
Using my key, I let myself into my parents’ house in Westchester. Everything inside looked exactly as it always had: spotless, quiet, controlled, as if emotions were not allowed to disturb the neatness of the place. The faint smell of lemon cleaner hung in the air. Framed photos of smiling family moments lined the hallway.
I didn’t call out when I entered. My throat felt tight and my eyes burned from crying.
As I approached the living room, I heard voices coming from the dining room.
My father Howard. My mother Evelyn.
And my sister Marina laughing.
I stopped in the hallway, unseen, my hand gripping my purse strap.
My father’s voice was calm and businesslike.
“She’ll be in shock. That’s when we get her to sign.”
My mother replied, “The funeral makes it perfect timing. She’ll be vulnerable.”
Marina let out a short laugh.
“She always is. Just tell her it’s for ‘family protection.’ She’ll believe it.”
My stomach twisted.
My father continued as casually as if he were discussing finances at the bank.
“We need the lofts transferred into the family trust immediately. At least four of them. She doesn’t understand Manhattan property.”
My mother added quickly, “And the cash—eight and a half million. She’ll waste it. We’ll manage it for her.”
Marina laughed again.
“She’ll give it to us. She still thinks we care.”
My heart pounded in my ears. A moment earlier I had believed grief was the worst thing I would face that day.
Now I realized something else entirely.
My family wasn’t planning to comfort me.
They were planning to take advantage of me while I was still dressed for my husband’s funeral.
Then my father said something that made my skin go cold.
“Once she signs,” he said, “we’ll move the accounts and cut off her access. If she fights back, we’ll say she’s unstable after Gideon’s death. Courts listen to family.”
I stood frozen, breathing shallowly.
