“Duly Witford.” Her voice carried the rasp of someone who’d smoked for decades and laughed even longer. “I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”
“You know who I am.”
“Sweetheart, your grandmother and I built half of Brooklyn together in the 70s. She talked about you constantly.” A pause. “She also told me about the will three years ago, right before she passed.”
I gripped my phone tighter. “Then you know what I’m about to do.”
“I know what you’re considering doing. There’s a difference.” Margaret’s tone shifted—sharper now, more business-like. “You want to request an emergency board meeting? That requires three board members to sign the petition. I’m one. You’ll need two more.”
“Can you help me find them?”
“I can do better than that.” I heard papers shuffling in the background. “Gerald Witford isn’t as popular as he thinks. His management style is, let’s call it, autocratic. At least four board members have expressed concerns privately. They just need someone to go first.”
Hope sparked in my chest. “Who?”
“Richard Holloway. Susan Park.” She corrected herself. “Susan Parker. They’ve both been on the receiving end of Gerald’s temper in closed sessions. I’ll make some calls.”
Another pause.
“Duly, I need you to understand something. This isn’t going to be pleasant. Your father will fight. Your sister will fight. They’ll say terrible things.”
“They’ve been saying terrible things my whole life.” At least now I get to respond.
Margaret laughed. A warm, genuine sound.
“Elellanar always said you had steel under all that quiet. I’m starting to see what she meant.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll have the petition ready by tonight. Board meeting request May 18th, 10:00 a.m. Witford Tower, 42nd floor.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when you’re sitting in that boardroom.”
May 17th. Gerald found out about the board meeting at 4:00 p.m. I know this because Miranda called me 45 minutes later, her voice tight with controlled fury.
“What did you do?”
I was sitting in my cubicle at Witford Properties pretending to organize files. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dad just got a notice from the board secretary. Emergency meeting tomorrow. Requested by Margaret Coleman and two other directors.” A pause. Sharp as broken glass. “Margaret Coleman hasn’t requested anything in 15 years. What did you do?”
“Maybe she has concerns about company management.”
“Don’t play games with me, Duly.” Miranda’s composure cracked. “If you’re trying to embarrass us, trying to make some kind of scene—”
“I’m just doing my job, Miranda. Same as always.”
She hung up without saying goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, Gerald stormed past my cubicle on his way to his office. He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge I existed, just slammed his door hard enough to rattle the windows through the wall.
I heard him on the phone.
“Ridiculous waste of time. Margaret’s probably going scenile. We’ll address her concerns and move on. No, I’m not worried. Duly, my god, Miranda, she can barely read a spreadsheet. She’s not a threat to anyone.”
I smiled. For the first time in 28 years, being underestimated felt like an advantage.
That night, in my apartment, I prepared. Printed three copies of the will. Downloaded the 2018 board minutes onto my phone as backup. Wrote a brief statement—not an accusation, just a presentation of facts.
Jonathan Ellis confirmed he’d attend as the authenticating attorney.
Margaret texted at 11 p.m. Petition filed. See you tomorrow. Your grandmother would be proud.
I barely slept, but for once, it wasn’t anxiety keeping me awake. It was anticipation.
May 18th, 2024. 9:45 a.m. Witford Tower.
The elevator opened onto the 42nd floor. Floor to ceiling windows. Italian marble. The kind of corporate opulence designed to intimidate.
I stepped out in a borrowed gray blazer—my roommates’, two sizes too big—carrying a leather portfolio I’d bought at Goodwill for $12.
The security guard at the boardroom door held up his hand.
“Name?”
“Duly Witford.”
He checked his tablet, frowned. “You’re not on the authorized attendee list.”
“I’m a Witford Properties employee and I have business with the board.”
“Ma’am, this is a restricted meeting. I can’t let you—”
“Is there a problem?” Miranda’s voice behind me.
I turned. She looked immaculate. Navy powers suit, Hermes scarf, the uniform of someone who belonged in boardrooms.
“Duly?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I have information to present to the board.”
“Information?” Miranda laughed. A sharp performative sound. “About what? You work in the copy room.”
“The nature of my presentation is confidential.”
“You don’t even know what ROI stands for.”
“Return on investment. It’s not that complicated.”
Miranda’s smile flickered.
Before she could respond, our father appeared at the end of the hallway flanked by two senior executives.
“What’s going on here?”
“Dulce wants to attend the board meeting,” Miranda said. “I was just explaining that’s not possible.”
Gerald looked at me the way he always did, like I was a stain he couldn’t quite scrub out.
“Doulsy, go back to your desk. This doesn’t concern you.”
