Wrongfully Yours

SLOANE The dead don’t call, but somehow, my mother always found a way to sound like one. My phone buzzed like it had a grudge, rattling the glass on my nightstand. With sleepy eyes, I traced the phone to the nightstand and brought it closer to my face. ‘Mom’ lit up the screen. I groaned and let my head fall back into the pillow. My tongue felt like sandpaper, and my skull throbbed from too much liquor from the previous night. “Mom....” I spoke grudgingly. “You need to come home.” She started. This was the umpteenth time she was saying this and my answer never changed but she didn’t seem like she was going to stop anytime soon. I turned......and froze. A pale arm lay across my chest. Blonde hair splayed out across the pillow. I blinked, trying to remember her name or at least how she got into my bed. I didn’t even remember bringing anyone home. Oh, right. The girl from the bar. “Where are you?” My mother questioned. I groaned and rubbed the back of my neck before looking at the chaos in the hotel room. A pair of heels by the door, my jeans slung halfway across a lampshade, red lace bra tangled around the neck of a champagne bottle on the floor, my shirt was crumpled at the foot of the bed..... it was too much of a chaotic mess. “Busy.” I spoke. “Can we not do this right now?” I rubbed my temple. “I told you I’m not....” “Your father is dead.” She spoke calmly and everything in me went still. The kind of stillness that wraps around the neck and squeezes. “What?” I breathed, barely hearing my own voice. I suddenly felt a deep shiver run through me. “He passed in his sleep last night. I thought you should hear it from me before the lawyers start calling.” I didn’t know what to say. My mind just....stalled. My father; Theodore Graves was too stubborn to die. He was steel and thunder and terrifying lectures. He couldn’t just.... go like that. Here I was, in bed with a stranger. Hungover. And apparently fatherless. “We are burying him on Thursday.” She continued, voice clipped. “Try not to embarrass the family.” The line went dead before I could respond. For a second, my head went blank. With aggressiveness, I tapped the lady right next to me and she sat up, with sleepy eyes. “You need to leave.” I spoke and raised my hands as she tried to caress me. “Get out.” Her brows knitted, like she wanted to say something else, maybe ask if I need company or probably pretend to care. “I mean it.” I added, standing to grab my jeans off the lampshade and yanking them on. “You got what you came for. Don’t drag this out.” Her mouth opened, then closed again. She nodded, quiet now, slipping out of bed like a ghost. I didn’t look at her again, not when she got dressed. Not even when the door clicked shut. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and slammed my fist into the wall. The pain was instant, sharp and stupid. I leaned my forehead against the cold plaster, trying to steady my breathing. My father and I hadn’t exactly been hugging it out at family dinners. We hadn’t spoken in months but this? This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. I’d always thought I’d have time to make things right. Or at least yell at him one last time. Not this. I sank to the edge of the bed, rubbing my sore knuckles. The room felt really cold, like he’d taken something with him when he left. Home was calling and for the first time, I couldn’t ignore it. ** I stood near the back of the small chapel, hands buried deep in my coat pockets. Father’s funeral had taken place few days ago and I hated this feeling, like my life couldn’t continue without him. Still, there was this knot in my chest that wouldn’t loosen. Grief, maybe. Guilt, probably. I had barely walked back into the house when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone. A sigh escaped my lips and I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Sloane, it’s great to see you again. I hope I am not intruding?” My father’s lawyer, Peter Langley smiled as he walked in. “You are.” I stepped aside. “But come in.” I offered him nothing; no drink, no seat but he sat anyway, carefully placing his briefcase on the coffee table. “I thought you guys usually do this in offices.” I muttered, sinking back into my chair. He gave a thin smile. “Your father’s instructions were to keep things simple... and personal.” Of course. That sounded like him, showing up only when it was too late to fix anything. Peter clicked open the briefcase and pulled out a sealed envelope, then a few folded documents. He cleared his throat. “Your father’s will was updated eight months ago. I’m here to share the immediate details with you and your mother before probate proceedings begin.” “Do we need her for this part?” I threw my hands. “She’ll be formally notified but this part concerns you.” He spoke with concern in his eyes. What is the worst Father could do? Deny me the rights to his properties and will everything over to the orphanage? “Your father has left you and another beneficiary equal shares in his personal estate. This estate. It also includes the Franklin Mansion, his fleet of luxury cars, the Aspen estate, the penthouse in Manhattan, the vineyard in Napa and the private island in Seychelles. There’s more. Paintings, collectibles, offshore assets, investment portfolios, and majority shares in Black Oak Conglomerate.” My brows arched. It felt like I had suddenly developed ear pain. “What beneficiary? Who? My mother?” “No.” He looked up at me. “A certain Miss Willow Mercer.” I scoffed and shook my head. Even in death, Father would not cease to amaze me. I kissed my teeth. “You mean.... Father had the guts to split my property with his mistress?!” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Actually, she is not his mistress..... she.... she is your half-sister. He had her outside marriage. She was legally acknowledged eighteen years ago...” “Eighteen years?!” I stood up. I still found it difficult to process what he had just said. I clenched my fist. That bastard! That was way before he separated from my mother. He cheated while he was still married to my mother? And now, he wanted me to split properties with the daughter of a slut? His mistake? My father; this man who could barely be bothered to look me in the eyes growing up; had another child. A daughter. From someone else. “So.... you are telling me...” I said, slowly, “that he left half his empire; not just some vacation house but everything to a bastard he had with a slut?” “She is his legal heir.” He responded. “Just like you.” I leaned back, hands locked behind my neck, heart pounding. I couldn’t even hate him more. I just felt... tired but one thing was sure. I didn’t just lose a father. I inherited a war.