It was unsettling.
Then, a week later, I got the letter.
A thick envelope in the mail.
The return address: a law firm.
I ripped it open, my stomach twisting.
Inside was an official notice.
My parents and Ethan were formally contesting my grandfather’s will.
I let out a slow breath.
They were really doing it.
The document claimed my grandfather had been influenced by me and that the will didn’t reflect his true intentions.
They were asking for the court to either divide the inheritance evenly or, more insultingly, to give it all to Ethan because, as the eldest son, he was always meant to inherit the family assets.
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
Me influencing my grandfather?
If anything, I had never even talked to him about his will.
He had made his decision on his own, probably after years of watching how my parents treated me versus Ethan.
I flipped through the pages, my hand shaking.
This was going to court.
I wasted no time.
I called the lawyer who had handled my grandfather’s estate.
When I explained the situation, she sighed.
“I had a feeling this might happen,” she said. “Your parents were not pleased when they heard the will was ironclad.”
“Can they actually win?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Unlikely. But it depends. If they can convince a judge that your grandfather was manipulated or mentally unfit, they could get some traction. It would still be an uphill battle for them, but it’ll cost you time and money to fight it.”
I gritted my teeth.
Of course.
That was probably part of their plan.
To drag me into court, force me to waste money on legal fees, and wear me down until I caved.
They weren’t just after the money.
This was about control.
About punishing me for stepping out of my place.
“Well,” I said, “they’re in for a surprise.”
Because if they wanted a war, I was ready to go nuclear.
The first thing I did was go through every document my grandfather had left behind.
His will.
His medical records.
His bank statements.
Everything.