My brilliant, brilliant boy.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you didn’t. I figured when you were ready, you’d tell me.”
He looked at the papers again.
“So, Grandma Elena was your real grandmother, the only one who wanted you. She left me something, didn’t she? In her will. That’s why Lance keeps checking documents.”
Lance nodded.
“She left you everything with conditions. Your biological grandparents can’t touch a penny if they abandoned you.”
“How much?”
“$15 million plus the restaurants.”
Sigard laughed. Actually laughed.
“They’re fighting this hard for money they already lost.”
“They don’t know they’ve lost it yet,” Lance said. “But they’re about to.”
They chose Bernardino’s, the most pretentious restaurant in Springfield. All white tablecloths and waiters who judged your wine pronunciation.
“Thank you for coming,” my mother said, as if she’d won something by getting me here.
My father pushed a leather folder across the table before our water arrived.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries.”
Inside, a contract. Harrison Industries letterhead, corporate seal, the works.
“$5 million,” he said. “Placed in trust for Sigard immediately. Another five when he joins the board. All we ask is a public reconciliation, a family photo for the announcement.”
“You want to buy us?”
“We want to invest in our legacy,” my mother corrected, adjusting her pearls. “Sigard is a Harrison. He should benefit from that name.”
“The name you took from me.”
“Which we’re offering to restore. The IPO launches next month. ‘Harrison Industries: three generations of excellence’ tests well with focus groups.”
Focus groups. They’d focus grouped our reconciliation.
“And Owen?” I asked.
My father’s jaw tightened.
“Mr. Blake is a separate matter.”
“Is he? Because he told me you’re paying him as a consultant.”
My mother’s mask slipped for just a second.
“That’s a misunderstanding.”
Lance had been quiet until now.
“Is it? Because we have emails suggesting otherwise. Something about a finder’s fee.”
“You’ve been monitoring our communications?”
My father stood.
“That’s illegal.”
“No. Owen forwarded them to Olivia. CCed. Actually, he’s not very bright.”
They exchanged a look. The same one they’d shared when deciding my fate 20 years ago.
“The offer stands,” my father said, tossing three $100 bills on the table. “But not for long.”
As they left, my mother turned.
“That boy deserves to know his real family.”
“He does,” I said. “That’s why he’ll never know you.”
Lance worked late that night, laptop open, documents spread across our dining table like evidence in a crime scene, which essentially they were.
“Olivia, come look at this.”
The email chain went back 3 months before the first news article about Seagar. My parents had been planning this.
From: robert.harrison@harrisonindustries.com
To: owenblake204@gmail.com
Subject: consultation agreement
“Mr. Blake, per our discussion, you’ll receive 10% of any assets recovered from the reconciliation with our daughter. Your role: establish paternal connection with SH, leverage for maternal cooperation.”
“They’re calling my son assets recovered,” I said.
“Keep reading.”