Chapter 3 - The Broken Crayon and the Will
"What in God's name is this?!"
A sharp, furious voice shattered the quiet of the master bedroom.
Julian Hale stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with disbelief and disgust. Behind him, Richard Vance held his briefcase like a shield, while Claire came rushing down the hallway, her face completely drained of color.
"Owen!" Claire gasped, pushing past Julian and sprinting into the room. She dropped to her knees beside the wheelchair, pulling Owen against her chest. "Oh God, Owen, I'm so sorry. Mr. Hale, I am so sorry, he didn't mean—"
"Get this brat out of here!" Julian shouted, his face flushing dark red as he strode into the room. "Delaney! Where the hell is Delaney?! I knew these low-class staff members were a security threat! Bringing a street urchin into my uncle's private quarters?!"
Julian reached out, grabbing Claire roughly by the upper arm to pull her away from the wheelchair. "Get up! You're fired! Pack your bags and get off this property before I call the police for trespassing!"
Claire stumbled back, keeping her body between Julian and her son. "Don't touch me!"
"I'll do more than touch you, you little thief—"
"Julian."
The word was not loud. It was barely above a whisper.
But it carried the cold, crushing weight of a falling guillotine.
Julian stopped dead in his tracks. He turned toward the wheelchair.
Everett Hale was sitting up straight. His spine, usually bent with pain and exhaustion, was rigid. His pale gray eyes were fixed on his nephew with a look of such concentrated, icy hatred that Julian actually took a step back.
"Take your hand off her," Everett said, his voice quiet, raspy, and utterly lethal.
"Uncle Everett," Julian stammered, adjusting his tie nervously. "You don't understand. This woman snuck her kid into the house! She violated her employment terms! She could be trying to—"
"I said," Everett repeated, his pale eyes narrowing, "take your hand off her."
Julian quickly let go of Claire’s sleeve, raising his hands in surrender. "Look, I was just protecting you. You're frail, you're sick, and these people take advantage—"
"If anyone is taking advantage of my frailty, Julian," Everett interrupted, glancing coldly at the leather briefcase in Attorney Vance's hand, "it is the vulture sitting in my armchair waiting for my pulse to stop."
Vance shifted uncomfortably, pulling the briefcase behind his back.
Everett looked down at his own right hand.
His frail, age-spotted fingers were closed around the broken yellow crayon. He held it tightly, as if it were a rare gemstone. Then he looked up at Claire, who was holding Owen, her body trembling with adrenaline and fear.
"Ms. Bennett," Everett said.
"Yes, Mr. Hale?" Claire whispered, her throat dry.
"Your son opened my curtains."
Claire swallowed hard. "I will discipline him immediately, sir. It won't happen—"
"He opened my curtains," Everett repeated, cutting her off. "And he told me I looked less dead with the light on."
Julian let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "The kid is disrespectful! See? He needs to be thrown out—"
"Shut up, Julian!" Everett roared, the sudden power in his voice shocking everyone in the room. He began to cough violently, his chest heaving, but he raised a hand to wave away Claire when she moved to help him.
When the coughing fit passed, Everett wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, his breathing heavy.
He looked directly at Owen, who was peeking out from behind Claire’s shoulder.
"What is your name, boy?" Everett asked.
"Owen," the child said softly.
"Owen what?"
"Owen Bennett."
Everett looked at Claire, then back at Julian. A terrible, brilliant, manipulative smile spread across the old man's gaunt face—a smile that his corporate rivals used to fear more than a lawsuit.
"Mr. Vance," Everett called out, turning to the nervous attorney.
"Yes, Mr. Hale?"
"You brought the draft revisions to my last will and testament, correct?"
Julian’s eyes lit up with sudden, greedy expectation. "Yes! Vance brought the papers! The power of attorney transfers we discussed last month!"
Everett ignored Julian completely. "Vance, tear those papers up."
Julian’s jaw dropped. "What?!"
"Tear them up," Everett commanded coldly. "And draft a new codicil. Effective immediately, Ms. Claire Bennett’s employment contract is revised. Her salary is quadrupled. She is appointed as my head executive residential manager."
Claire stared at him in absolute shock. "Mr. Hale... I can't accept—"
"And her son," Everett continued, his eyes fixed on Julian’s horrified face, "is permitted total, unrestricted access to every room on the second floor. Including my study."
Julian looked like he was about to suffer an aneurysm. "Uncle Everett, this is madness! You're incompetent! She’s manipulating you! She's been in this house for twenty-four hours!"
"Then she has accomplished more in twenty-four hours than you have in thirty-eight years, Julian," Everett said softly. "Now get out of my room. Before I have security remove you from the county."
Julian stared at his uncle, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He glared at Claire with pure, venomous rage, then turned to Vance.
"We're leaving," Julian spat, shoving past Vance and storming down the hallway, his heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards.
Attorney Vance gave a hurried, terrified nod toward the wheelchair and practically ran after Julian.
The bedroom went silent again.
Claire stood slowly, holding Owen in her arms. She looked at the old billionaire, who was still clutching the yellow crayon.
"Why are you doing this?" Claire asked quietly. "You don't know us. You don't like children."
Everett turned his head, looking out the six-inch gap in the velvet curtains where the afternoon sun was pouring in.
"Thirty years ago, Ms. Bennett," Everett said softly, his voice losing its cruel edge and sounding terribly old, "I had a son. His name was Leo. He was four years old when he played in the west wing of this house."
Claire held her breath.
"He died of leukemia in the spring of 1994," Everett whispered. "After he died, I closed the curtains. I locked the doors. And I spent thirty years filling this house with money so I wouldn't have to feel the dark."
He looked down at the yellow crayon in his hand.
"Your son is the first person in thirty years who didn't care about my money," Everett said, his gray eyes meeting Claire’s. "He just wanted me to look less dead."
May you like
Everett turned his wheelchair back toward the hearth.
"Take the boy downstairs, Ms. Bennett," Everett said quietly. "Bring my tea at four. And leave the curtains open."
