A second later, my new daughter-in-law, Madison, followed in a cloud of white designer tulle.
Margaret went to the wet bar and poured two glasses of champagne. She handed one to Madison.
“To the stupidest man in Boston,” Madison said, lifting her glass.
Margaret laughed.
Not her polite society laugh.
A real one.
“To Charles,” she replied. “The goose that lays the golden eggs.”
My hands gripped the metal desk so hard my knuckles cracked.
I stood there in the basement and watched my wife and my daughter-in-law discuss my life like a business deal. They talked about selling the lake house I had just transferred to my son, Ethan. They planned to use the money to pay Madison’s hidden credit card debt and buy a secret condo in Aspen.
Then they mentioned the Whitman Family Trust.
The trust was designed to release the largest portion of my fortune only when my first biological grandchild was born.
On the screen, Madison placed a manicured hand over her flat stomach and smiled.
“Ethan actually thinks the baby is his,” she said. “He can’t even do basic math.”
“Make sure he never finds out,” Margaret said. “And don’t let Charles demand a DNA test. He’s sentimental, but he isn’t stupid.”
The room seemed to lose all air.
Then Madison asked, “When is he going to retire permanently? I can’t keep acting like the sweet daughter-in-law forever.”
Margaret set down her glass.
