Arthur’s hand flew to his chest. His face went pale, then gray. He stumbled forward against the desk.
“Don’t you dare touch my son!”
He collapsed onto the carpet.
“Someone call an ambulance!” I screamed, dropping to my knees beside him. “Arthur, stay with me. Please stay with me.”
His lips moved, barely a whisper. “The Bible… Eleanor’s Bible… read it…”
“What?”
Vivien stood frozen for one second, then turned to her lawyers. “Get the documents. Now!”
“Eleanor’s Bible… read it…”
“You will not touch one paper in this room,” I said, rising to my feet, blocking the desk with my body.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t shaking from fear. I was shaking with fury.
“Move!” Vivian snapped.
“Your father is dying on this floor, and you’re reaching for paperwork. You want to talk about elder abuse? Look in a mirror, Vivien.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. One of the staff must’ve heard the commotion and called for an ambulance.
I was shaking with fury.
Arthur was admitted to the ICU that night.
A week later, I faced Vivian in court. Arthur’s lawyer, Mr. Hensley, stood beside me with a leather folder pressed against his chest.
“Your Honor,” Vivian said, “this woman married my dying father for his money. She manipulated a sick old man.”
“Your Honor,” Hensley said calmly, “may I present documents signed by Mr. W. before the marriage?”
The judge nodded.
I faced Vivian in court.
“These are guardianship papers for Eleanor,” Hensley said. “And a sealed letter Mr. W. asked me to deliver only if his daughter filed suit.”
Vivien’s face went white. “That letter is not admissible—”
“It is notarized,” Hensley said. “And it concerns Eleanor’s care.”
