Money had given Walter comfort, but little companionship. His wife had died, and his three children rarely visited.
“They aren’t interested in me,” he admitted one afternoon. “They’re waiting for what I’ll leave behind.”
When his health deteriorated, they suddenly appeared with lawyers. They wanted control over his medical decisions, and Walter feared they would shorten his remaining time.
He asked me to marry him so they could not dictate his final days. I agreed because I wanted him protected.
He brought me upstairs to the penthouse, and we spent two happy years together. During his final months, we read aloud to each other and watched the sunset from his balcony.
When he died, I was holding his hand. At the funeral, his children barely spoke to me, exchanging whispers and hostile looks instead.
A week later, his attorney, Mr. Grant, sat across from me in the suite. Between us lay a cream envelope sealed with red wax.
