Chapter 10 - The Judgment of the Founder
The letter was dated August 14th, 2014—just three weeks before Thomas Vance passed away.
*My Dearest Leah,*
*If you are reading this, it means my son Arthur has finally proven himself to be the man I always feared he was. I spent a lifetime building an enterprise with the hope that wealth might grant my children security, but it has only fed Arthur’s vanity and Chelsea’s cruelty.*
*You were born into a storm you did not cause. Arthur accepted your parentage under duress, and I watched him punish you with coldness for crimes you never committed. I could not undo the circumstances of your birth, but I could ensure that David Wright’s bloodline was not discarded by the Vance name.*
*The manor belongs to you and Maisie. The timber trust belongs to you and Maisie. And inside the black ledger beside this letter is the complete record of every transfer, every hidden account, and every offshore routing number Arthur created to hide his thefts. I kept the duplicate banking records from the day he made his first illegal withdrawal.*
*Do not show mercy to those who showed none to a child. Take back what is yours, clear your mother's cowardice from your path, and raise Maisie to know that a true family is built on honor, not bloodlines.*
*Your loving Grandfather,*
*Thomas Vance.*
I folded the letter carefully and pressed it against my chest, tears finally breaking free and rolling down my face. All the years of feeling like an intruder in my own home, all the Christmases spent sitting at the drafty end of the table, all the casual cruelties Arthur had dispensed with a wave of his hand—they hadn't been because I was unworthy.
They had been because Arthur was terrified of me.
I picked up the heavy black ledger. Its pages were filled with Grandfather’s tight, meticulous bookkeeping—dates, dollar amounts, bank swift codes, and signed confessions from the bankers Arthur had bribed to alter the trust records.
This wasn't just evidence for a probate dispute.
This was federal prison time.
"Mom?" Maisie’s voice came from the sofa. She had stood up, clutching her torn bead kit, looking toward the door.
May you like
The heavy oak doors swung open with a violent bang.
***
