“Actually,” a voice called from inside the boardroom, “it does.”
Margaret Coleman appeared in the doorway. 72 years old, silver-haired, standing with the quiet authority of someone who’d been building empires when Gerald was still in diapers.
“I invited her. She has standing to address the board.” Margaret smiled. “Let her in.”
Gerald’s jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might physically block the door, but Margaret Coleman had been a board member for 32 years. Her authority in that room exceeded his.
“Fine.” My father’s voice was ice. “Let her speak. We’ll see how long it takes before she embarrasses herself.”
The boardroom was smaller than I’d imagined. An oval table of polished walnut. 12 leather chairs. Portraits of past executives on the walls, including—I noticed—my grandmother Eleanor, her painted eyes seeming to watch from above the fireplace.
Twelve board members took their seats. Gerald at the head. Miranda to his right—not officially a board member yet, but positioned as he apparent. I was directed to a chair at the far end, the children’s table of corporate governance.
In the corner, Jonathan Ellis sat with his briefcase. He caught my eye, nodded once.
Robert Hartley, the board chairman, a distinguished man in his mid60s who’d known my grandmother for decades, called the meeting to order.
“This emergency session was requested by Margaret Coleman, Richard Holloway, and Susan Parker. Margaret, you have the floor.”
“Margaret Rose. Thank you, Robert. I’ll keep my remarks brief.” She gestured toward me. “The matter I wish to address concerns a document that has recently come to light, a document that affects the ownership structure of this company. I yield my time to Miss Duly Witford.”
All eyes turned to me. Miranda smirked. Gerald leaned back in his chair with theatrical boredom.
I stood. My hands were steadier than I expected.
“Thank you, Mrs. Coleman. And thank you to the board for allowing me to speak.” I opened my portfolio. “What I’m about to present may come as a surprise to some of you. I ask only that you listen to the evidence before reaching any conclusions.”
Gerald sighed audibly. I ignored him.
Before I could continue, my father raised his hand.
“I’m sorry, Robert, but before we waste the board’s valuable time—”
Gerald stood, buttoning his jacket with deliberate slowness. “I need to provide some context.”
“Gerald,” Margaret started—
“Dulce is my daughter.” His voice carried that patronizing warmth he used for difficult clients. “And I love her, but she’s not qualified to address this board on any business matter. She works in an administrative role. She has no legal training, no financial background, no strategic experience.”
Miranda chimed in, her tone dripping with false sympathy.
“Duly also has dyslexia. She struggles with reading. We’ve tried to support her, but…” She shrugged elegantly. “Some limitations can’t be overcome with effort alone.”
A few board members shifted uncomfortably.
“What we’re seeing here,” Gerald continued, “is a troubled young woman acting out, perhaps due to the announcement at Miranda’s graduation party. Sibling jealousy is—”
“Mr. Whitford.” Robert Hartley’s voice cut through like a gavvel. “You’ll have an opportunity to respond, but Miss Witford requested this time, and she’s entitled to use it.”
Gerald sat down. His expression promised consequences.
Miranda caught my eye and mouthed, “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I looked at them both—my father, my sister—and felt something shift inside me. Not anger, something colder, clearer. They weren’t trying to protect me. They weren’t even trying to protect the company. They were trying to protect their version of the story, the version where I was nothing.
“Thank you, Mr. Hartley.” I pulled the document from my portfolio. “I won’t be discussing my reading ability today. I’ll be discussing this.”
I held up the will.
The room went silent.
“This is the last will in testament of Elellanar Margaret Witford, founder of this company, notorized September 12th, 2019.”
Gerald’s face drained of color.
“That’s impossible.” Gerald’s voice came out strangled. “My mother’s will was executed in 2015. I have a copy.”
“You have a copy of her previous will.” I kept my voice level. Clinical. “Under New York estates powers and trusts law. A subsequent valid will automatically revokes all prior testimeament documents.”
This will— I placed it on the table—“was executed four years after the one you possess.”
I slid the document to Robert Hartley.
“Mr. Ellis,” I gestured to Jonathan, who rose from his corner seat. “Would you please confirm the authenticity of this document?”
Jonathan approached the table.
“I’m Jonathan Ellis, partner at Morrison and Blake. I served as Elellanar Witford’s personal attorney from 2008 until her death in 2021. I can confirm this will was executed in my presence on September 12th, 2019. It was witnessed by two independent notaries and the original is held in escrow at Chase Private Client.”
Robert Hartley studied the document. His eyebrows rose.
“This will be Quequath’s 51% of Witford Properties shares too.” He looked up at me. “To you, Miss Witford.”
Murmurss rippled around the table.
“That’s a forgery,” Miranda said, but her voice had lost its confidence.
“It’s not,” Jonathan’s response was immediate. “And I’d advise you against making accusations of fraud without evidence, Miss Witford. Morrison and Blake’s reputation speaks for itself.”
Gerald slammed his palm on the table.
“This is absurd. My mother was ill. She was being manipulated.”
“Manipulated?” I pulled out my phone. “Perhaps you’d like to explain this then.”
I pressed play on the 2018 board meeting audio.
My father’s voice filled the room.
“Eleanor is 81 years old. She doesn’t understand modern business. I moved to reduce her voting rights to 10%.”
The recording ended.
The silence that followed was absolute.
“That recording—” Gerald’s face had turned a modeled purple. “That was a private board discussion.”
“Which Eleanor attended.” I kept my voice steady. “She recorded it as was her right as a shareholder.”
Robert Hartley set down the will. His expression had shifted from neutral to something harder.
“Miss Witford, would you read the relevant passage aloud? For the record.”
I nodded, took a breath.
“To my granddaughter, Dulce Anne Witford, I bequeath 51% of my shares in Witford Properties LLC, along with all voting rights associated therewith.”
I paused, letting the words settle.
