Curtis stood frozen, staring at me as though I’d risen from the dead.

“All of it… to her?” he whispered.

Sterling snapped the folder shut with a decisive crack.

“Yes, Mr. Curtis. According to the divorce documents you personally submitted last week”—he lifted the papers—“and the testimony of security confirming Mrs. Vanessa’s removal from the home, the disinheritance clause has been fully activated.”

Curtis collapsed into his chair, gasping.

“No… no… this can’t be right,” he cried. “Sterling, fix this! Vanessa, please!”

He spun toward me, desperation replacing arrogance in seconds. He lunged forward, trying to seize my hands.

“Vanessa, sweetheart,” he begged. “I was under pressure. Grief broke me. I didn’t mean to push you away. I just needed space! I love you. We can fix this. We have seventy-five million! Everything can be perfect again!”

I looked at him—at the same hands that had thrown a check at my feet and watched me be expelled into the rain. In his eyes, I saw no love. Only panic. Greed. Fear of being poor.