“I was observing,” he said. “Seeing who paid attention—and who was simply waiting. And it turns out, you were the only one who never tried to influence me.”
He opened a drawer and pushed a thick folder across the desk.
“I want you to be the executor.”
I froze. “Grandpa… that’s a lot to take on.”
“And you’re the only one I trust with it.”
It wasn’t about inheritance. Not truly. It was about what it symbolized—being chosen without pressure or guilt, but out of respect.
“I’ll do it,” I said softly.
He nodded. “And the BMW?”
“I don’t want it returned,” I said. “I just don’t want to pretend Lucy didn’t take something that wasn’t hers.”
“She’ll answer for that,” he said calmly. “Soon.”
Continue on the next page:
