The inheritance

Between the flames

Alexander woke early that morning. By six o'clock he was already sitting in his study — the large room on the western wing of the first floor, lined with oak furniture and bookshelves reaching to the ceiling, with a vast window overlooking the garden. This was his sanctuary.

He was reviewing the weekly reports when someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," he said, looking up.

Anna entered, carrying a tray. The rich scent of fresh coffee filled the room.

"I thought you might enjoy a morning coffee," she said quietly, setting the tray on the desk.

Alexander rose and looked at her with a grateful smile.

"Anna, you are the only person in this house who still thinks of me."

She sat down in the armchair opposite. She was the only one who could. Peter's wife, yet somehow she had always felt more like a true family member than Barbara ever had.

"I heard again last night," she said softly. "Barbara was shouting again."

Alexander sighed and sat back down. He took a sip of coffee.

"Every day. Every single day."

"Why don't you divorce her, Alex? Why didn't you leave years ago?"

Alexander gazed out the window for a long moment. The morning sun was just catching the roses.

"Because... it's complicated, Anna. Very complicated."

She didn't push him. She knew Alexander didn't like talking about these things. Instead she changed the subject.

"The boys will all be here today. George mentioned you want to hold an important family meeting."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Anna spoke again.

"You know, don't you, that Peter... that he is not like the others? He genuinely respects you."

Alexander looked up, and was surprised to see tears glimmering in Anna's eyes.

"I know, Anna. I know. Peter was always different. But the others — John and George." He paused. "The others are their mother's children. Not mine."

Anna wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be crying here."

"Don't worry about it. At least someone still feels something in this palace of ice."

---

It was ten o'clock in the morning when Barbara finally emerged from the bedroom. She appeared in a silk dressing gown, her makeup perfect — as though she hadn't slept at all. In reality, she spent three hours each morning in her dressing room to achieve that effortlessly natural appearance.

She found the boys assembled in the grand sitting room. All four of them, with their wives. Peter and Anna, John and Mary, George and Margareth. Only Andrew sat alone in a corner, a book in his hands.

"Finally!" cried John. "We thought you'd never get up."

Barbara waved a dismissive hand.

"A lady never hurries, darling. You ought to know that by now."

She settled into the most comfortable armchair and gestured for the maid to bring her coffee. Then she looked around the room.

"Where is your father?"

"In his study," George answered. "Where he always is. Working like a machine."

Barbara gave a short, bitter laugh — the sardonic sound everyone knew so well.

"Working? You say he's working? Hardly. He's playing the great businessman. He made his fortune on my parents' money, and now he acts as though he built all of this himself."

Peter shifted uncomfortably.

"Mother, you shouldn't speak about him like that. Father—"

"Your father!" Barbara cut him off. "Your father would be nobody if it weren't for me. My family had money — not his."

Anna tightened her grip on Peter's hand to stop him from answering. She knew it would be pointless.

George leaned back on the sofa.

"So what? What does it matter now? We have our houses, our cars, our money. Does it matter where it came from?"

"Exactly," nodded John. "At least we don't have to work like common people."

Andrew looked up from his book.

"Listen to yourselves. Do you actually mean that?"

"And what would you know, you little artist?" John snapped. "You waste your life entirely uselessly. At least we rent out our properties and have income from it."

"Properties that father's money bought," Andrew remarked quietly.

"So?" George shrugged. "He's our father. That's what he's there for."

---

It was the last days of autumn. In the villa's garden the leaves had long since fallen, and the bare trees cast shadows on the terrace where Alexander sat alone, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. He was sixty-five years old, but his eyes — those deep brown, all-seeing eyes — still held a youthful quality. Only lately had they begun to look tired.

Barbara was in the sitting room. She was talking on the phone, loudly, on speaker — most likely with her friend Vera — and her voice cut through the thick walls with ease. Alexander paid no attention. He had long ago learned to filter out the woman's voice.

The door had been left slightly ajar, and her words drifted through clearly.

"Vera, you are the only one I can tell this to," Barbara began, her voice low but excited. "The real truth."

"What truth, darling?" asked Vera curiously.

Barbara sighed, then her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "My father... my father lost everything. Everything. The betting, the horse races... he gambled for years and he lost. By the time Alex married me, my parents had almost nothing left. The last thing they had — our family home — was auctioned off to pay my father's debts."

Silence followed. Alexander turned toward the door, his heartbeat slowing.

"But... then..." Vera's voice became uncertain. "Then how can you say what you always say? That Alex made his fortune from your parents' money?"

Barbara laughed — a short, cold sound. "Because no one knows the truth, and no one is going to find out. Only you know, and I know you'll keep quiet. If anyone asks, I deny it. Clearly, firmly. I always have, and I always will."

"But Barbara... that's not..."

"This is my life, Vera." Barbara's voice turned to steel. "Alex saved my family from total ruin — yes. But I will never admit that publicly. Never. My version is that his wealth came from my parents. Full stop."

Alexander quietly withdrew to his study and gently closed the door. His hands were trembling.

---

The Explosion

The argument began that evening. Barbara sat at the dinner table and brought up the old subject again — the one they had revisited a thousand times, or rather had never truly resolved at all.

"Do you know what Lucy Carter said to me today?" Barbara began, her voice already sharp. "She asked whether it was true that the business had been started on my parents' money. I told her it was absolutely true."

Alexander looked up from his newspaper. His eyes were cold, but calm. "Did you."

"I did." Barbara lifted her chin with pride. "Because it is the truth, isn't it? If it weren't for my parents, you would be nobody. A nobody. A pauper."

Alexander slowly set down his newspaper. Something stirred within him — an old, long-suppressed feeling, rising now toward the surface.

"Barbara," he said quietly. "Is that truly what you believe? That I would be like Lajos? The man you wanted to marry? The man your father wouldn't allow you to marry?"

"I know it!" the woman cried, leaping to her feet. "Thirty-three years I have listened to people praising you, celebrating you, adoring you! Your employees, your business partners, your social circles! And meanwhile I... I have been pushed into the background! I, whose parents made all of this possible!"

"You sacrificed yourself." Alexander's voice was strange now — neither cold nor warm. As though reciting words long rehearsed. "That's what you always say, isn't it? That you sacrificed yourself for me."

"Yes! Yes, I sacrificed myself!" Barbara's voice now filled the entire room. "You married me because you needed my parents' money! Because without them you would have been nothing! I gave you everything, I made you what you are!"

Alexander slowly stood. He was tall, and somehow he seemed taller than ever. He walked around the table and stopped in front of Barbara. He did not raise his voice — which was somehow more frightening than if he had.

"Do you know what I heard today?" he asked quietly.

Barbara froze. Something in the man's voice stopped her. "I... I don't understand what..."

"Your conversation with Vera." Alexander's eyes now bore directly into hers. "I heard every word. Including when you told her the truth. The real truth."

Barbara's face drained of color. "You... you couldn't have heard..."

"I heard." Alexander's voice rose one notch but remained controlled. "I heard when you told Vera that your father had lost everything on the gambling. That by the time we married, your parents had nothing left. That their last possession was auctioned off to pay the debts. I also heard when you said you would deny it — that you always had denied it, and always would."

"This... this isn't how it was! You misunderstood something, I only..."

"You'll deny it." Alexander smiled bitterly. "Exactly as you said. You're already denying it. For thirty-three years you have denied the truth, Barbara. Thirty-three years of lies — to me, to our sons, to society, and most of all to yourself."

"I didn't lie! My parents..."

"Your father was a compulsive gambler!" His voice finally rose. The fury held back for years broke through now, like a river that had been dammed too long. "He lost everything! My father paid off his debts so that your ridiculous parents wouldn't end up in prison! My father saved your father from complete ruin! And in return, he asked me to marry you!"

Barbara stumbled backward as though she had been slapped. "That... that's not true..."

"Not true?" Alexander stepped closer. "Then show me, Barbara. Show me your parents' wealth. Show me a single penny they contributed to this house, this business, this life."

The silence was crushing. Barbara's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"I married you because that was the price of the business, of my father's inheritance." Alexander's voice was tired now — with an ancient weariness. "I did not love you. I never loved you. You knew it, I knew it. But I did my duty honorably throughout. I provided for you, for our sons, I gave you everything. In return, you lied for thirty-three years, humiliated me in public, and raised four sons who regard their father as nothing more than a bank account."

"Alex, I... I love you, I always..."

"Don't!" The man's voice was sharp as a blade. "Don't say that to me. Not now, not here, not after what I heard. Enough, Barbara. Enough of you, enough of your lies. I have been doing this for thirty-three years. Thirty-three years."

Alexander's hands began to shake. He clutched at his chest — a strange, crushing pain tore through him. He steadied himself against the table.

"Alex?" Barbara stepped closer, alarmed now. "Alex, what's wrong?"

But the man could no longer hear her. The room was spinning, the air growing heavier with every breath. He sank to his knees, and then slowly, with a strange dignity — as though even in collapse he wished to remain in command of himself — he slid to the floor.