Luca opened his mouth, but no smooth corporate lies came out. He had no answer for his daughter.
Arthur spoke softly, looking up at his son. “Look closely, Luca. The family standing on those stairs is your true legacy. Not my corporate stock.”
Luca grabbed his suitcases and walked out into the night.
I assumed he would drive straight to Chloe’s apartment. He did.
However, the romantic welcome he expected was not waiting for him.
When he sat in her living room and revealed that his father had completely written him out of the estate, Chloe’s very first question wasn’t how he was holding up.
“Can’t your legal team contest the document?” she demanded.
“My father is still alive, Chloe.”
“But he’s terminal! You can argue that Jessi took advantage of his medical condition!”
Luca stared at her, stunned by her instant, cold calculation.
When he told her he needed to stay at her place for a few weeks while things blew over, Chloe flatly refused.
“You promised me a life of wealth and executive status, Luca,” she sneered, gathering her coat. “Not sharing a one-bedroom rental while you wage a multi-year legal war against your ex-wife, your dying father, and his attorneys.”
That very afternoon, the grand romance for which he had blown up his sixteen-year marriage came to an abrupt, pathetic end.
Luca ended up checking into a long-stay hotel.
I immediately filed for divorce.
He begged for time to “reconcile,” but in private, he attempted to negotiate a deal with me:
“Renounce your claim to my father’s corporate shares, Jessi, and I won’t contest your ownership of our home.”
I nearly laughed in his face. “I inherited this property from my aunt years before we were ever married, Luca. You can’t use my own house as a bargaining chip.”
Then a bitter war began.
Luca met with high-priced litigation attorneys. He subtly probed Kelly during his court-ordered visitations, asking how often I was taking the kids to see their grandfather. He tried to track Arthur’s medical appointments, wanting to know what medications he was taking and what documents he was signing.
Meanwhile, Arthur’s condition deteriorated rapidly.
I stepped in to manage his daily care—organizing his prescriptions, taking him to oncology appointments, and cooking his meals. Not because I was guarding a future inheritance, but because he had been a loving, supportive father to me for sixteen years.
One afternoon, I found Arthur collapsed on the floor near the kitchen island.
I called an ambulance immediately. I called Luca three times; he didn’t answer his phone.
He didn’t bother showing up at the hospital until the following morning.
His very first question to the attending nurse wasn’t about his father’s vitals.
He asked, “Did he execute any legal or financial documents while he was admitted here?”
That was the first time I ever saw Arthur cry.
Not in front of his son—he held his composure until Luca left the room.