“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.
“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, Dulsey Witford is the majority shareholder of Witford Properties.”
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?”
