Gemotions

The antique music box in her trembling hands felt cold and insignificant. "And for Beatrice," the will stated, the lawyer's voice a distant drone, "the family homestead, and the majority of the liquid assets." Across from her, staring blankly at the floor, was her brother, Arthur, who’d been promised the family’s rare book collection and a trust fund. Beatrice's breath hitched. Her stomach was doing flips, like she’d been on a rollercoaster.

She’d always been the practical one, the responsible one. Arthur had always been indulged, catered to. Now, she was left with the responsibility of maintaining the crumbling manor house, a task she had no desire to shoulder. The injustice of it all was a heavy, suffocating weight.

Beatrice slowly set the music box down on the table, trying to quell the tremors in her fingers. She would not allow herself to be reduced to a blubbering mess.