“This bequest is made with full knowledge of my son Gerald’s treatment of Duly. She has been excluded, diminished, and denied opportunity, not due to lack of ability, but due to lack of support.”
Miranda made a choking sound.
“Duly is not slow. Duly was abandoned, and I will not allow her father’s prejudice to continue after my death.”
I looked directly at my father.
“Gerald has confused credentials with character, degrees with worth. He tried to strip me of my voting rights because I saw through him. He marginalized Dulce because she reminded him of the kind of person he refuses to be.”
Gerald said nothing. His hands, I noticed, were trembling.
“The will concludes: I built this company from nothing. I choose who carries it forward. I choose Duly.”
Robert Hartley removed his reading glasses.
“Jonathan, you can confirm this document is legally binding.”
“I can. The 2015 will is superseded.”
“As of this moment,” Hartley said, “Dulsey Witford is the majority shareholder of Witford Properties.”
Someone inhaled sharply.
Margaret Coleman smiled quietly. Richard Holloway and Susan Parker exchanged glances.
And for the first time in my life, I watched my father look at me with something other than dismissal. It was fear.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” Miranda said, but her voice had turned brittle. “Even if the will is valid, which will contest, Duly has no business experience. She can’t run a company.”
“I’m not asking to run the company.” I address the full board now. “I’m asking you to examine the facts.”
I pulled the 2018 board minutes from my portfolio.
“March 14th, 2018. Gerald Witford proposed resolution 2018 to07 to reduce Elellanar Witford’s voting shares from 51% to 10%. His stated rationale—” I found the passage. “The founder is no longer capable of understanding modern business operations.”
“That was taken out of context,” Gerald said.
“The resolution failed by two votes: Elellanar’s vote and Margaret Coleman’s.” I looked at Margaret. “Is that accurate?”
Margaret nodded slowly. “It is. Ellaner called me that night. She was devastated. Not because of the resolution—she knew it would fail—but because her own son had tried to take everything she’d built.”
“This is ancient history,” Gerald started.
“It’s evidence.” I cut him off. “Evidence that my grandmother wasn’t suffering from diminished capacity when she wrote that 2019 will. She was protecting herself from her own son, and she was protecting me.”
Robert Heartley looked around the table.
“Does anyone else have documentation contradicting what’s been presented?”
Silence.
“Gerald.” My father’s jaw worked. No words came.
“Miranda.” My sister stared at the table. Her perfect composure had cracked entirely.
Richard Holloway spoke for the first time. “Robert, I think we need to recess and have legal counsel review these documents.”
“Agreed.” Hartley checked his watch. “We’ll reconvene in 15 minutes. Jonathan, please remain available.”
The board members rose. Conversations broke out in hush tones. Gerald didn’t move. He sat frozen, staring at his mother’s portrait on the wall. I wondered if he could feel her watching.
Fifteen minutes stretched into 45. The board’s legal counsel, a thin man named Patterson, whom I’d never met, spent the entire time on his phone with Morrison and Blake, Chase private client, and the New York State Court’s records office.
I sat alone at the end of the table. Jonathan Ellis brought me a glass of water. Margaret Coleman patted my shoulder as she passed. Gerald and Miranda huddled in the corner, their whispered argument growing increasingly heated.
Finally, Patterson returned to the table and whispered in Robert Hartley’s ear. Hartley’s expression flickered—“Surprise, then resignation.
“Please take your seats.”
The board members filed back to their chairs. The tension in the room had crystallized into something brittle.
“Our legal council has confirmed the following,” Hartley read from his notes. “The will presented by Miss Witford is valid under New York State law. It supersedes all previous testimeament documents. Effective immediately, Dulianne Witford holds 51% of Witford properties shares.”
Someone inhaled sharply.
“Additionally,” Hartley continued, “as majority shareholder, Miss Witford has the right to propose motions to the board, including matters pertaining to executive leadership.” He looked at me. “Miss Witford, do you have any motions you wish to bring forward?”
I stood. My heart was pounding, but my voice held steady.
“I have one motion.”
Gerald rose from his seat. “Robert, this is—”
“Sit down, Gerald.” Hartley’s voice carried unexpected steel. “Miss Witford has the floor.”
Gerald sat. His face had gone gray.
I looked around the table at 12 people who, until an hour ago, had never considered me capable of anything. Now they waited for my decision. The power to destroy my father’s career was in my hands.
I thought about what my grandmother would want. And I made my choice.
“I’m not proposing to remove Gerald Witford as CEO.”
The tension in the room shifted. Miranda’s head snapped up. Even Margaret looked surprised.
“What I am proposing,” I continued, “is a vote of confidence. The board will decide whether Gerald Witford retains their confidence as CEO of Witford Properties. If the majority votes no confidence, he resigns. If the majority votes confidence, I will not interfere with operational leadership during my tenure as majority shareholder.”
“This is absurd,” Miranda stood. “You’re turning this into a a spectacle, a revenge fantasy.”
“No.” I met her eyes. “This is corporate governance. The same process that exists in every well-run company. The same process Grandma Eleanor established in our bylaws 40 years ago.” I paused. “If Dad has the board’s confidence, he has nothing to worry about.”
Robert Hartley studied me for a long moment. Something like respect flickered in his expression.
“Is there a second for this motion?”
“Seconded.” Margaret Coleman didn’t hesitate.
