He asked me to marry him so they could not dictate his final days. I agreed because I wanted him protected.
He brought me upstairs to the penthouse, and we spent two happy years together. During his final months, we read aloud to each other and watched the sunset from his balcony.
When he died, I was holding his hand. At the funeral, his children barely spoke to me, exchanging whispers and hostile looks instead.
A week later, his attorney, Mr. Grant, sat across from me in the suite. Between us lay a cream envelope sealed with red wax.
“Is this about the estate?” I asked. “His children can have the money, the furniture, everything. I never married him for that.”
Mr. Grant looked troubled. “Margaret, all three have filed lawsuits challenging your marriage. They claim their father was incompetent and that you manipulated him.”
“He beat me at chess three nights before he died.”
