I’m sure he left me something. How much is the part I don’t know. We never discussed it. He always assumed I’d be groomed to take over the family business and that one day the Rhys-Jones empire would be mine, but since I parted ways recently, my future has been less predictable. I’m not sure what will happen today.
He could’ve completely written me out of everything for all I know.
That thought doesn’t scare me as much as it used to or as much as it probably should.
I’m not destitute by any means, but since putting the family business on the back burner to make a go of things with Maverick, I’ve been living off my savings. Most of the profit Maverick and I bring in goes back into our business. Give us another couple of years and we’ll be much more comfortable, but building a business from the ground up takes time and money.
The cash flow from an inheritance would help tremendously. A total fucking game changer. The best part is, I’d finally be able to completely separate myself from working for my father and live the life I choose, instead of the one I was born into.
Regardless of what Maverick thinks, blazing my own path is a lot more important to me these days than what kind of car I drive or how big my house is. He loves giving me a hard time about my expensive tastes, but just because I like nice things doesn’t mean I’m afraid of going after what I want.
Maybe one of these days, I’ll confide in him just how much his own escape from Dallas high society two years ago led to my own. He, also, had an inheritance to help him out but he’s made investments, not only in our business, but in Carys’s and he gets stretched thin at times. It’s my turn to pony up. We’re both equal partners in every way but a little extra money in the bank would be nice.
So, yeah, I’d fucking love to claim my inheritance.
The room the receptionist escorts us into is just as stifling as the company I’m keeping.
My father takes a seat at the far end of the large mahogany table and my mother sits to his left. I take the seat across from him. He doesn’t make eye contact, merely pulls out his phone and begins typing away furiously—answering emails, returning messages…who the fuck knows. He could be playing Candy Crush. Anything to keep from engaging with me these days.
I went against the grain…went my own way…turned down the chance at running the family business…which is all a big fuck you in his eyes. He can’t fathom why I wouldn’t want to be him one day.
My mother cuts her eyes to my father and then over to me. She probably wants to say something, anything to break the tension that’s settled over the room, but she won’t. That’s not her place. She’s there to look pretty and play the part. She’s there not because my father is madly in love with her, but because her last name is Rhys. Her family had something my father’s family wanted—real estate, properties.
When I was younger, I deluded myself into thinking we were a real family, but it didn’t take long to figure out that was only true in public. According to the world, the who’s who of Highland Park, we were Phillip, Jane, and Shepard Rhys-Jones. The perfect family. But in private, we were Phillip the business owner, who slept with countless women, and Jane the socialite, who screwed the pros at the country club. And Shepard, the son who saw everything.
Which is exactly why I’ll never marry.
It’s one business transaction I have no desire to complete.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Hall says, wiping back a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. He quickly takes a seat at the head of the table, between me and my father. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
“Yes,” my father says, pocketing his phone and clasping his hands in front of him on the sleek table. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, sir.” Even though Mr. Hall has at least twenty years on my father, he cowers down to him like everyone else. Opening his briefcase, he extracts a stack of papers. “The three of you have been asked to come here today per Mr. Jones’ final requests.” He lays a set of papers in front of each of us. “Mr. Jones was very clear that he wanted you all here…together.”
I don’t miss my father’s annoyed expression. “Well, let’s get to it.” He checks the time on his watch before clasping his hands back together. I’m surprised he isn’t tapping his fingers on the table, which is what he usually does when he feels like someone is wasting his time. It’s like an audible reminder that his minutes count more than yours.
For the first time since my grandfather’s death, a wave of sadness washes over me. This is it. This is all that’s left of him—his legacy—the two of us sitting at this table. Well, three counting my mother…and four, I guess, if you count the money, which is an entity in itself and all anyone really cares about.
Mr. Hall begins to read through the will and I start to wonder why we couldn’t have just been sent copies to read in our own time? Why would my grandfather want us all together for this?
“I appoint Clarence M. Hall of Barrows, Morrell, and Hall to be Executor of this Will and Trustee of my Estate.”
When my father lets out a disgruntled sigh, Mr. Hall pauses and clears his throat, adjusting the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
“Continue,” my father instructs briskly, waving a hand in the air as he reclines in his seat, apparently put out with the idea of his father leaving someone besides him in charge of his affairs.
“Yes, right,” Mr. Hall says, shifting the papers as he continues. “In the event that the said Clarence Hall should predecease me or die within a period of thirty days following my death, or without having proved this my Will, or be unwilling or unable to act for any reason whatsoever, I entrust his colleague, Donald Barrows, with said duties.”
I have to fight back the smirk that’s trying to force its way on my face. It’s not the time or place for feeling such mirth, but I do. Maybe it’s displaced sadness or some shit like that, but I’m taking entirely too much pleasure in seeing my father rebuffed from his own father’s will.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.
“Phillip,” my mother chastises. As much as I’m sure she’s unhappy my father is not in charge, she cares even more about public appearances. It’s one thing to show your true feelings in private, but never with an audience. If you’re a Rhys-Jones, you always save face.
Mr. Hall keeps reading and it’s as if he’s trying to get through the rest of the will as fast as possible, probably ready to be done with this and send us all on our merry way.
“I revoke all prior wills and codicils.”
At that statement, my father sits up a little straighter and leans over the table, resting on his elbows. I have to admit, I listen a little closer too. This could be it, the part where he disowns me for walking away. Briefly, I let my eyes flicker across to my father, wondering if I am written out, will he do the same? He’s one of those men who thinks everyone should make his own way in the world, unless you’re Phillip Jones, and in that case, you want your cake and eat it too.
“I give free of debts, testamentary, funeral expenses and liabilities of any kind to my Trustee on behalf of the named beneficiaries herein,” Mr. Hall pauses, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses once again, what I’m picking up as his nervous tick. “One hundred million dollars to my grandson, Shepard Rhys-Jones.”