The attorney, a weaselly man named Harrison who refused to make eye contact with me, opened his thick leather folder. And there, with the hum of the medical equipment serving as a morbid soundtrack, the life I had built, bled for, and sustained was methodically carved up and handed to a stranger.
“As per the revised documents,” Harrison mumbled, adjusting his spectacles, “the majority of the liquid assets, as well as the eight commercial properties held under the Apex Holdings LLC, will be transferred via a living trust to Melissa Vance and her son, Leo.”
Eight properties. The foundation of his wealth. The real estate empire that only existed because I had cosigned his first, desperate loans twenty years ago.
“Furthermore,” Harrison continued, his voice droning on, “the titles to the Mercedes G-Wagon, the Range Rover, and the Porsche 911 are to be signed over today.”
Melissa feigned a look of bashful humility, tucking a perfectly highlighted strand of hair behind her ear. She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with a ravenous, unrestrained greed. “And… what about the lake house, Victor?” she whispered, stroking his frail, bruised arm. “Leo loves the lake house so much.”
