I let them help me to the sofa, watching their eyes dart frantically to each other. They thought they had failed, but they didn’t know I knew.
“This scare…” I breathed heavily, looking around at them. “It made me realize something. Life is fragile. Too fragile.”
“Dad, you should rest,” Preston stammered, looking sick to his stomach.
“No,” I raised a hand. “No more resting. Next week is our 40th wedding anniversary. I was going to keep it a surprise, but… I’ve rented the grand ballroom at the St. Regis. I’m launching the Sterling Family Foundation.” I looked directly into Eleanor’s panicked eyes. “I want everyone there. The board, the politicians, our friends. And Pastor Marcus, of course. I want everyone present when I officially step down and transfer power to the next generation.”
I smiled. A weak, tired, old man’s smile.
“I want everyone to get exactly what they deserve.”
They exhaled. They smiled back. The fools thought they had won.
The week leading up to the gala was a masterclass in deception. I played the frail, compliant husband to perfection. I let Eleanor guide me by the arm. I let Preston talk over me at dinner. I let them believe they were the architects of my final chapter.
In reality, I was engineering their apocalypse.
Every afternoon, while Eleanor thought I was napping, I was in a secure boardroom downtown with Ms. Sterling. The forensic accounting was complete, and what we found was staggering.
“Your wife wasn’t just planning to steal the estate,” Ms. Sterling said, sliding a massive dossier across the glass table. “She’s been bleeding it for years. But that’s not the worst part.”
She opened a folder to reveal a complex web of bank transfers.
“Reverend Marcus Thorne,” Sterling continued, adjusting her glasses. “He runs the church’s charitable outreach fund. Over the last five years, nearly four million dollars of your corporate donations haven’t gone to the community. They’ve gone into a shell company in the Cayman Islands.”
“Marcus is stealing from his own church?” I asked, disgusted.
“He’s stealing from the church to pay off your son,” Sterling corrected gently. “Preston has a severe, undocumented gambling problem. Illegal sports betting syndicates. Marcus has been embezzling the church funds to keep the bookies from breaking Preston’s legs. It’s a vicious cycle.”
I closed my eyes. The holy man and his bastard son, bonded by blood and crime, financed by my hard work.
“Lock it all down,” I commanded. “Every account. Every deed. Revoke the lake house transfer—fraud invalidates the contract. By Saturday night, I want them holding nothing but air.”
The final piece of the puzzle fell into place on Thursday. Harper, growing impatient with my continued survival, ambushed me at a local cafe while I was supposedly reading the paper.
read more in next page
