Arranged love

I put it back on the desk and rub a hand down my face, releasing a long breath. “What about my mother? She is his wife. She is legally entitled to what was his.” Not like my mother would want fifty percent of the company-she never showed any interest-but she could sell my father’s shares and that money could take care of what little time she has left.

Mr. Yan and George exchange a look.

Slamming my hands on the desk, I stand. “Quit bullshitting me.” I may not be an attorney, but I’m not an idiot. He can’t possibly take the house just because it’s written in a trust. It may be in the company’s name, but it should go to my mother. His wife.

George opens up the desk drawer again and hands me a black folder.

“What the hell is this?” I ask, mentally tired. He doesn’t respond. I fall into the chair and rip it open. Pulling the papers out, I read over them, and my heart begins to pound in my chest. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Emilee.” George speaks. “They wanted to tell you …”

“I don’t believe it.” I shake my head as tears prick my eyes. Divorce. They got a divorce. “Two years ago?” I read both of their signatures and dates. “But …” I want to say that I’ve seen them together, but I haven’t. Not since I graduated college and moved to Chicago. But wouldn’t they have told me? That’s fucking important. “This is bullshit!”

“They didn’t want to burden you with their differences,” Mr. Yan adds. “But unfortunately, when they got a divorce, she was no longer covered under the company’s health insurance.”

I let out a rough laugh because this is a joke. It has to be.

“Mr. Wilton will continue to pay for her care.”

“So, that’s what this is about?” Growling, I stand and begin to pace the room, my heels sinking into the thick rug. Now he’s going to take care of her? At what cost? Is the first thought that comes to mind. But a part of me already knows that answer, so I refuse to ask it out loud. I won’t give him that satisfaction. “This can’t be happening.” I sigh.

The attorney reaches into his folder and hands me another piece of paper, forcing me to stop. “He had a separate policy for you.”

I try to scan it over, but I don’t really know half the shit it’s saying until I get to three million dollars. Then my eyes read the next part. “Thirty-five?” I ask, looking at him.

He nods. “At thirty-five, you will receive access to your inheritance.”

That’s eleven more years. “Are you the executor?” I snap at George.

He gives me that snake-like smile and shakes his head. “No.”Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

I throw the papers to the floor.

My father is dead.

My parents are divorced.

And George controls fucking everything.

This is a nightmare I just need to wake up from.

Yan stands. “Until then, Mr. Wilton has controlling interest over the company and estate. You two can talk amongst yourself and figure the rest out.” He gathers up his things, and George stands, walking him to the door and seeing him out.

Figure the rest out? What kind of attorney says that? The moment I leave this office, I’m going to hire my own.

George comes back and sits down at the desk. I look at him, and he sighs heavily. “This is not the situation I wanted, Emilee.”

“Then hand it over to me,” I challenge him.

He smiles softly. “That is not what your father wanted.”

I look away. “The house? Give me the house.” It’s paid for. I know this because my father built the house for my mother. He was so proud of it, and she cherished it. He could hand it over to me, and I could borrow against it. That will be enough for me to cover my mother’s medical expenses on my own. I don’t want to owe this man a single dollar.

“It’s in the company’s name,” he repeats. “I am the company.”

I feel tears sting my eyes. Is that even possible? “So are you gonna kick us out?” I ask, and my throat tightens at the words. Make me pay rent? My mom spends a lot of time at the hospital. She’s seeking treatment even though we all know it won’t do her any good. She’s going to die. The clock has started ticking. And as much as I hate losing her, I need to accept it and spend what little time she has left with her.

I look back at him, and my brows pull together. Why does he have this shit-eating grin on his face?

I’ve been away from Las Vegas two years now. I haven’t come home enough. I know that now. So much was happening that I didn’t even know of. I wish I could go back and spend more time with them, but it’s too late. He’s gone. She’s fading. And I’m going to be left here with this sorry piece of shit.

He leans forward, placing his forearms on the desk. “Do you want to stay?” My heart beats faster at his words before his eyes drop to my chest. “In the house, that is?”

I look down at my hands fisted in my lap as the tears blur my vision. I knew it.

He’s always been a fucking perv. My father chose him as a business partner because they were best friends, but that doesn’t make him a good human being. There’s a reason snakes hide in the grass.

“What do you want?” I ask even though I already know. I can’t move my mom to Chicago when all of her doctors are here. I won’t do that to her. She would want to stay here in her house to live out what remaining time she has left. Plus, my apartment is on the third floor. She would never be able to get up and down the floors easily. Even if she did take the elevator.

“It’s simple really.” He gets up, and I stiffen, keeping my head down.

My body begins to shake. I hear him behind me, but I don’t turn around. Seconds later, he comes back to sit at the desk in my father’s seat and pours a glass of scotch. He slides it to me and pours another one for himself. But I’m surprised when he slides that one to me as well. “You want your mother taken care of. And I want you.”

He watches the tear run down my cheek and smiles. I stand. “No,” I say and turn to walk toward the door. I’ll find a way …

“She needs healthcare.” My hand pauses on the doorknob. “You can’t cover her under yours because you no longer have one after quitting your job. You could try to get her, her own policy now, but I doubt anyone would touch her. They don’t like to dish out money for terminally ill patients. Do you make millions of dollars a year, Emilee? Do you make enough to pay for her treatment out of pocket?”

I close my eyes, and my shoulders fall. We both know I can’t.

“She’s got maybe four months left.” He adds. “Even if the treatment doesn’t work, don’t you want her to be comfortable?”