Wealth (free and completed)

Chapter 1 - The Wake

Val

2005

Mr. Sangster – dad – laid in an intricately carved casket in Briar Hill’s living room. It was burnished a dark brown, no doubt the most expensive the funeral home could offer. The usually large and airy room felt suffocated by white roses in their various arrangements.

A framed photo showing him in his signature gentle smile was placed in front of a large wreath with tulips and orchids, aberrant flowers in the white rose world. I had stubbornly chosen the wreath, knowing what he liked best, but I did not want to fight the florist over all the other details. I hated how her face turned to pity whenever she looked at me.

What did she use to say, in her stage whisper, pity more venomous than outright hostility?

“What a beautiful girl, but wheelchair-bound. Who would marry her unless it is someone who wants her money?”

She did not care that what she said was offensive. She possibly meant to say every word and how every syllable reached me.

I also hated that Emilie would usually nod at her as if agreeing.

As everyone came to pay their last respects, Miss Rowan Seale, the florist, stood in the midst, chatting with my sister, Emilie. They were two slinky, self-possessed women, wearing little black dresses that hugged their curves. Miss Seale was tall and slim, flat-chested but sexy, based on how men’s eyes often skimmed her body. She was Emilie’s best friend. On the other hand, Emilie would be the picture that would first pop out if you search for a blonde bombshell. She dabbled in modeling as she dabbled in everything, losing interest so quickly and jumping to the next source of excitement before anyone could understand what had happened. Dad had a way of spoiling his children, including me.

The house was full of guests, people Dad had touched through his sixty-plus years. He was not only a billionaire businessman, but he was also a philanthropist, mentor, and activist. Some relatives were there, not a threat to the inheritance, all with deep pockets and high pride. They looked down on all of us, little birds Dad had taken in.

He had always believed in giving everyone a chance. It was why he formally adopted Emilie, Rafael, and Joseph. It was also why he took me in after an accident had left me crippled and orphaned. Most people shied away from the word “cripple,” and I could see why. I did not see myself one, either. I was more than that word – that hurtful imposition.

And yet, here I was, on my electric wheelchair, steering myself around. I found myself apologizing and saying “Excuse me” a few times that day. I would not be mingling with everyone if not for the fact it was my dad’s wake.

I also wanted to separate myself from the flashes of horror that threatened to overwhelm – flashes of the scene that I found dad in. Closer to his body, I saw blood pooling around his head. He must have bumped his head as he fell.

I screamed.

At that time, I was still hoping I could save him with my screams. Then, I heard my siblings rushing from their rooms and servants running from downstairs.

Where were they all along?

The police took over the study. Although they had taken samples and pictures, the room was still out of bounds. Joseph did most of the talking with the investigators.

We were all interrogated, one by one. The rest did not want to share what the police asked them. Rafael laughed it off as nonsense.

“I feel terrible it had to happen to dad, but surely they could see that nobody in this house would do anything to him. We are a family!”

I wanted to grab him by his rock band shirt and shake him, tell him that even family members could be suspects. Many times, they were also guilty. But what did I know then? All I knew was that they barely asked me anything, simply because I was in a wheelchair. I was spared from most of the details because they thought I was a fragile flower. I scoffed at the thought.

I did not know if I should be relieved or insulted.

Even though I felt overwhelmed by all the people milling around, I knew most of them. Many of them liked me. It went with the territory that I was the heroine in the story, or perhaps the damsel in distress.

The older ones tended to almost coo at me, as if I was a toddler instead of a young woman of twenty-four, with a double degree in Mathematics and Literature. When you could not walk, dance, and run, you found ways to show them, “Look at me.” It was my way of saying that I could do the unexpected, stretch the left and right sides of my brain effortlessly.

“Accept our sympathies, Valerie. Please call on us whenever you need someone,” one had said.

“Oh, Valerie! It must have been so horrible, finding your dad like that. Are you alright, my dear?”

The younger ones, near my age, would simply look at me. They were afraid to go down there – being friends with someone they had to pity or protect.

Looking back at my choices, they were just right. They were also practical, providing me with skills I could use at home. I became a regular writer for a horror and speculative fiction blog. I also tutored wealthy kids online. I was pretty proud that I had helped many get over their fear of Mathematics. Letters and numbers were my friends. People thought that my wheelchair had imprisoned me. Strangely enough, I realized that I had backed myself in a corner more than any other person could.

Suddenly, I heard people’s voices rising in excitement. I was curious. What was going on? Why would they be making a lot of noise? The hushed whispers and kind remarks had made way for something else – scandalized thrill.

I maneuvered my wheelchair to face the open entrance, and there he was. He was the most handsome and most troubled man I had ever met: dark, golden brown hair, straight nose, sculpted jaw, and faint stubble. He was a little over six feet tall, but he somehow disguised it with his bent back. It was not a posture problem, I could tell, but more of a way to hide himself from all the eyes that were on him. He wore a dark suit, elegant from afar but cheap compared to what the rest of the men in the room wore. I chided myself for noticing the difference at all. I reasoned I was not being a snob, just trained to see these things. My eyes even caught his black leather shoes, worn out and tired just like him.

When he finally straightened his back, he had walked close enough for me to see his steely grey eyes.

Why was he headed towards me? Panic and thrill shoot up my system. I knew that he would not attack me right in the middle of a crowded room. His eyes were not cruel, more likely defensive. I would be defensive if I entered a room where everyone watched me like hungry hawks.

“Good morning. I take it you are Valerie? Valerie, um, Sangster?” he asked. His voice was deep, but I could recognize the uncertainty there. It was not easy for him to be here, but of course, I would be the most recognizable among the Sangster wards.

“Hi. Good morning. No, I am sorry. I am not formally adopted. It’s Valerie Matthews,” I said, offering my hand.

Instead of shaking my hand, he kissed it. Somebody giggled in the crowd. Some had returned to their conversations, but some were openly gawking at us. Two circus freaks.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Matthews. I heard that Mr. Sangster had taken in four children. I heard about you,” he said, smiling. I could tell that he was the sort of man who did not care what other people thought of him, but the situation had made him slightly awkward. Should I feel sorry for him? My heart twisted a little, but I knew that I did not want people feeling sorry for me. So, why should I feel this way for him? Okay, I felt protective. Yes, I was the one sitting in a wheelchair while he had to bend his six-foot frame to talk to me, and I felt protective.

“Not to sound rude, mister. I do not know you. Are you here for our dad?”

He blinked at that. Then, he straightened himself again. His gaze was on the casket a few feet behind me.

“Yes, you could say that. I am Janus Malcolm, Mr. Sangster’s biological son.”

I almost giggled, but I had the grace to cover my mouth with a hand. His face, however, was stormy, as he continued looking at the casket. He was not joking, and fortune hunters did not look this angry.