From the back of the room, my sister in law Charlotte Reed tightened her jaw, clearly wanting me to fight, to challenge everything, to drag Brielle out by force, yet I remained still because I had not come to argue, I had come to watch a carefully built illusion reach its breaking point.
“We will also need to formalize the acceptance of the inheritance,” the attorney added carefully, glancing between us as if anticipating what might follow.
“Of course I accept it,” Brielle replied immediately, lifting her chin with certainty, “everything he left behind belongs to me.”
She leaned slightly closer to me with a smile that carried quiet cruelty and said, “I will let you collect your personal things from the apartment, since I am not heartless, although he always said you made that place feel dull and lifeless.”
My mother in law, Mrs. Dawson, murmured weakly, “Brielle, please,” though her concern seemed more about appearances than anything else, because her grief had always been tied to reputation rather than truth.