We all sat down.
Chairs scraped softly against the marble floor, the sound slicing through the quiet room like a warning. No one spoke. No one even coughed. It felt like the house itself was holding its breath.
The long dining table stretched between us, polished and cold, a battlefield disguised as luxury.
At the head sat the lawyer.
His black briefcase rested neatly beside his chair. He wore a charcoal suit, crisp and untouched by emotion. His glasses reflected the chandelier's light, hiding his eyes completely. Whatever he felt—if he felt anything at all—was sealed behind professionalism.
Paper shuffled in his hands.
The sound was small. Harmless.
Yet it thundered in my ears.
My palms were damp. Cold. My heartbeat slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
Across from me sat Robert Walton.
Relaxed. Too relaxed.
One elbow rested on the table, his chin propped against his knuckles, eyes moving lazily from face to face like he was watching a play he'd already seen before.
Like he already knew how it ended.
Beside him, my mother-in-law, Helen Walton, sat rigid, her spine straight, lips pressed so tightly together they'd turned white. Her fingers tapped the table in an uneven rhythm—tap, pause, tap—as if she was counting down to something.
Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to me.
Sharp.
Judging.
Like I didn't belong in the same room.
Like I was dirt that had somehow crawled onto their marble floor.
Mark's father, Watson Walton, sat at the far end of the table. Silent. Motionless. His face was lined with age and exhaustion. He stared down at his folded hands and didn't look at anyone—not even me.
The staff lined the walls.
Still. Silent.
Like statues trained not to exist.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
The sound cut through the room.
Then he began.
His voice was calm. Measured. Cold. The voice of a man who read death for a living.
"I, Mark Walton, of sound mind and body…"
My chest tightened.
Hearing his name like that hurt. Too official. Too final.
"…do hereby appoint my wife, Mrs. Alexa Walton, as executor of this estate."
My fingers twitched in my lap.
Executor?
Me?
The word felt unreal. Heavy. Dangerous.
The lawyer didn't pause long enough for anyone to react.
"After payment of all debts, taxes, and expenses, I give, devise, and bequeath the residue of my estate…"
The room seemed to shrink.
The air thickened. Pressed against my lungs.
"…to my beloved wife, Alexa Walton, absolutely and in fee simple."
Silence.
Not a single breath moved.
For a second, I wondered if my ears had betrayed me. If my grief had twisted the words into something impossible.
But then he continued.
Listing.
One by one.
Walton Global Holdings — full ownership transferred to Alexa Walton.
Walton Energy Consortium — controlling shares assigned solely to Alexa Walton.
Walton Maritime Ventures — yachts, shipping routes, international ports.
Walton Private Equity Group — investment portfolios across three continents.
Properties.
Private estates in New York, California, Aspen.
A villa in Lake Como.
A penthouse in London.
An island property registered under Walton Holdings.
Stocks.
Art.
Liquid assets.
Trust accounts.
Billions.
Each word hit like a hammer to my chest.
All to me.
Not shared.
Not divided.
Not explained.
All.
My heart stopped.
Shock came first.
Then fear.
Then something worse.
Guilt.
Heavy and suffocating.
Like I had stolen something sacred.
Like everyone in the room was thinking the same thing.
Thief.
Gold digger.
The lawyer turned another page.
"One final clause," he said evenly. "Any beneficiary who contests this will shall immediately forfeit their inheritance in its entirety."
The words dropped like a bomb.
Then—
BAM!
Helen Walton slammed her hand onto the table so hard the wine bottles jumped. Glasses rattled. Water spilled over crystal rims.
"NEVER!" she screamed.
Her chair screeched as she stood. "This woman stands no chance of inheriting what we built for generations!"
Her face flushed red. Veins rose along her neck. Her eyes burned with something ugly.
Something murderous.
Something inside me snapped.
I stood too.
"You mean," I said slowly, "everything my husband worked for."
Her eyes widened.
Then—
Splash.
Cold liquid struck my face.
Wine.
Red.
It dripped down my hair, soaked into my dress, stained the white fabric like blood.
"LIAR!" she screamed. "This can't be real! He was indecisive, not stupid! You bewitched him!"
Her finger stabbed the air toward me.
"She trapped him! Manipulated him!"
I didn't wipe my face.
Didn't cry.
Didn't flinch.
I just stared back.
Calm.
Cold.
Because if I reacted, she would win.
"I am not finished, Mrs. Walton," the lawyer said sharply. "Please sit."
Watson Walton grabbed Helen's arm, forcing her back down. She fought him, hissing curses under her breath.
Robert?
Still quiet.
Still watching.
Calculating.
That terrified me more than her rage.
The room fell silent again.
But the tension was sharper now.
Deadlier.
The lawyer straightened the papers.
"There is still more," he said.
My stomach dropped.
Robert finally lifted his head.
Interested.
Everyone leaned forward.
Waiting.
Frozen.
And the silence stretched.
Unbearable.