“And now, we come to the final clause,” Mr. Vance said, pausing to look over his spectacles directly at Curtis.
Curtis chuckled. “Skip the suspense, Vance. Transfer it all to my primary account. We know how this goes.”
“Actually, Curtis, you don’t,” Mr. Vance said, his voice dropping into a deadly serious register. He began to read from the page. “To my son, Curtis, I leave the sum of one dollar. You were too busy for my life, so you shall have no part in my death. You asked if I mentioned the will; let this be the answer you sought.”
Curtis’s smug grin instantly froze. The color drained from his face so fast it looked as though he had been struck. He slammed both palms onto the table, standing up. “What?! That’s impossible! I am his only biological son! He was senile when he wrote that! I’ll contest it! I’ll sue this entire firm!”
“Sit down, Curtis,” Mr. Vance commanded coldly, not flinching for a second. “Your father was certified fully lucid by three independent psychologists when this clause was drafted three months ago. Furthermore, the will clearly states that if you attempt to contest this document, you forfeit even that single dollar.”
Curtis sank back into his chair, breathing heavily, his hands shaking violently as absolute panic began to set in. “Then… then who gets it?” he stammered, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. “Where is the seventy-five million going? To a charity? A museum?”
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