I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

was your grandfather.”

I looked at the photograph again.

“Why did my dad say he was dead?”

“That,” Richard replied, “is the condition.”

I looked up.

Richard opened the envelope and removed a second document.

“Your grandfather knew your father would attempt to claim the estate after his death.”

“Why?”

“Because your father already tried once.”

My fingers tightened around the paper.

“When?”

“Six years ago.”

I shook my head.

“My dad never mentioned any inheritance.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Richard slid another document toward me.

It was a legal notice.

At the top was the name Brooks Holdings.

Below it were several signatures.

One of them belonged to my father.

“He attempted to have himself declared your grandfather’s only surviving heir,” Richard said.

“But James refused.”

“Why?”

“Because your grandfather had already made his decision.”

Richard pointed to the final paragraph.

“He changed his will.”

I swallowed.

“To me?”

“To you.”