From the high-backed chair, Charles observed his sister, Beatrice, as the executor of their father's will began to speak. She sat stiffly, a tense line etched around her mouth. Charles, on the other hand, felt a strange detachment, a curious numbness washing over him. The opulent room of the family manor felt hollow, the sunlight that streamed through the windows cold.
“Beatrice,” the executor announced, his voice echoing in the vast space, “you will inherit the family’s extensive art collection, including several valuable pieces.”
Beatrice gasped, her eyes widening. She’d always possessed a keen artistic sense, a passion for beauty. But the sheer weight of responsibility, the constant need for preservation, had to be a daunting prospect.
“And Charles, you will be receiving your father’s extensive network of contacts, and access to all of his business deals.” The executor’s gaze flicked to Charles.
Charles felt a sudden, visceral revulsion. He’d always despised his father’s world of cutthroat dealings, of ruthless ambition. He’d always dreamed of a simpler life. A wave of dizziness washed over him, the room swimming. The weight of his father’s legacy felt unbearable.