«My client, Victoria Bellamy, devoted herself to her father’s care. She ran his company, managed his affairs, insured his comfort. Yet she was cut from the primary inheritance in favor of someone who couldn’t even attend his funeral.»
Hastings paused for effect. «We will demonstrate that Harold Bellamy lacked testamentary capacity when this will was drafted. And that Miss Margot Bellamy exerted undue influence through emotional manipulation.»
He sat down, satisfaction radiating from him.
Judge Cross turned to Rebecca. «Miss Walsh?»
Rebecca stood, her voice steadier than Margot expected. «Your Honor, the evidence will show that Harold Bellamy was of sound mind. That his final will reflected genuine wishes. And that Miss Margot Bellamy had no contact with her father during the period in question.»
«The truth, Your Honor, is quite different from the story Mr. Hastings wishes to tell.»
The first day was brutal. Hastings paraded witness after witness: society friends who barely knew Harold, business associates who confirmed Victoria’s competence, and a doctor who testified about Harold’s declining health. Each testimony painted Margot as a ghost who haunted the edges of Harold’s life, invisible until money appeared.
During recess, Victoria cornered Margot in the corridor. «You should withdraw,» she said, her voice low and venomous. «You’re embarrassing yourself. That house is worthless anyway, probably costs more to demolish than it’s worth. Take 50,000 pounds and disappear back to your books.»
«Why do you care so much about a worthless house?» Margot asked quietly.
Something flickered in Victoria’s eyes—fear, quickly masked. «I don’t. I care about father’s legacy not being tarnished by your pathetic grab for attention.»
But Margot had seen it. Victoria knew something about Whitmore House, something that terrified her.
The breakthrough came on day three. Rebecca called Theodore Pembroke to the stand. The elderly attorney had initially seemed reluctant to participate, bound by professional discretion, but something had changed his mind.
«Mr. Pembroke,» Rebecca began. «You were Harold Bellamy’s attorney for how many years?»
«42 years,» Theodore replied, his voice steady.
«And you drafted his final will?»
«I did.»
«In your professional opinion, was Harold Bellamy of sound mind when he gave you instructions for this will?»
Theodore looked directly at Judge Cross. «Absolutely. In fact, his mind was clearer in those final months than I’d seen it in years. He was determined, purposeful.»
Hastings leapt up. «Objection! Speculation.»
«Overruled,» Judge Cross said. «Continue, Mr. Pembroke.»
«Harold Bellamy came to my office eight months before his death. He brought with him a box of documents—letters primarily—that he’d recently discovered. He spent three hours explaining exactly what he wanted done and why.»
Theodore paused. «He was adamant that Margot receive Whitmore House. He said, and I quote, ‘My daughter deserves to know the truth, and Victoria must never find it.'»
The courtroom erupted. Hastings was shouting objections. Victoria had gone pale. Judge Cross’s gavel cracked like thunder. «Order! Mr. Hastings, approach the bench. Ms. Walsh, you too.»
During the whispered conference, Margot felt her heart hammering. Theodore had just opened a door she wasn’t sure they could walk through. What truth? What had her father hidden at Whitmore House?
When the attorneys returned, Judge Cross’s expression was unreadable. «Mr. Pembroke, these letters you mentioned… do they still exist?»
«They do, Your Honor. They’re in my firm’s vault. Harold gave me copies for safekeeping.»
«I want them submitted as evidence by tomorrow morning.» Judge Cross’s gaze swung to Victoria. «Ms. Victoria Bellamy, did you know about these letters?»
Victoria’s lawyer whispered urgently in her ear, but she shook him off. «I have no idea what he’s talking about, Your Honor. My father’s illness clearly affected his judgment.»
«That’s not what I asked,» Judge Cross interrupted. «Have you been to Whitmore House in the past six months?»
The question hung in the air like a blade. «I… I may have driven past it. I was concerned about the property’s condition.»
«Your Honor,» Rebecca interjected, pulling out her phone. «I have photographs taken by Ms. Margot Bellamy three weeks ago. The locks on Whitmore House had been recently forced. Someone searched the property extensively, causing significant damage.»
Margot had discovered the break-in when she’d first visited the house. Rooms had been ransacked, floorboards pried up, walls examined. Someone had been desperately searching for something.
Judge Cross’s expression hardened. «This trial is adjourned until Monday. Mr. Pembroke, I want those letters. Ms. Walsh, file a police report about the break-in.»
«And Ms. Victoria Bellamy,» her voice could have cut steel, «if I discover you’ve tampered with evidence or this property, I will hold you in contempt. Am I clear?»
«Yes, Your Honor,» Victoria whispered.
As the courtroom emptied, Margot caught Theodore’s eye. He gave her the slightest nod, an acknowledgment of alliance, of secrets about to surface.
Outside, Rebecca grabbed Margot’s arm. «What’s in those letters? Do you know?»
Margot thought of the key her father had left her, of the safety deposit box she’d opened weeks ago. Inside had been a bundle of letters in her mother’s handwriting, addressed to Harold but returned unopened. And a leather journal filled with her father’s anguished confessions. She knew exactly what was in those letters.
They revealed that Victoria wasn’t Harold’s adopted daughter at all. Patricia had lied about everything. Victoria was the daughter of Harold’s business rival, planted in the family to steal industrial secrets.
And Whitmore House contained the proof: documents her mother had hidden before she died. Insurance against Patricia’s manipulations. Harold had discovered the truth too late.
After Victoria had already embedded herself in the company, he’d spent his final months protecting what remained. He left Victoria the business she’d «earned» through deceit but ensured Margot received the truth.
«The letters,» Margot said quietly, «are going to change everything.»
Victoria emerged from the courthouse, her mask finally slipping. She looked directly at Margot, and her expression was pure hatred. The war had begun in earnest.
The Sanctuary Built
The courtroom was silent as Judge Helena Cross read the letters aloud. Each word was a detonation, destroying the carefully constructed lie that Victoria Bellamy had lived for 23 years.
«‘My dearest Harold,'» Judge Cross read from Margot’s mother’s elegant script, dated 18 months before her death. «‘I’ve discovered something terrible about Patricia and her daughter. The documents I found in your study—the Bellamy Maritime shipping manifests, the classified port contracts—Victoria has been photographing them.'»
«‘I followed her to a meeting with Richard Blackwell, your competitor, your enemy. Harold, they’re using us, using our family. I’ve made copies and hidden them at Whitmore. Please, we must act carefully. Our daughter Margot must be protected from this.'»
Victoria sat frozen, her expensive facade cracking like porcelain. Owen Hastings had his head in his hands. Patricia, called as a witness that morning, had already fled the courtroom in tears.
Theodore Pembroke had brought everything: 37 letters returned unopened, Harold’s journal documenting his discovery, and most damning, bank statements showing payments from Blackwell Industries to Patricia’s private accounts, dating back 25 years.
«Mr. Hastings,» Judge Cross said, her voice ice. «Does your client wish to continue this contest?»
Hastings stood slowly. He looked at Victoria, who sat trembling, then back at the judge. «Your Honor, we respectfully withdraw our petition.»
«Wise choice.» Judge Cross’s eyes were flint. «Furthermore, I’m referring this matter to the Crown Prosecution Service. Miss Victoria Bellamy, while industrial espionage falls outside this court’s purview, your attempt to defraud Miss Margot Bellamy through false testimony and destruction of property does not. You’ll be hearing from investigators.»
Victoria stood on shaking legs. For just a moment, she looked at Margot. Not with hatred anymore, but with something like despair. The life she’d built, the identity she’d worn like armor, was disintegrating.
«The original will stands,» Judge Cross concluded. «This court is adjourned.»
As the courtroom emptied, Rebecca hugged Margot tightly. «You won! You actually won!»
But Margot felt no triumph, only a hollow exhaustion. She’d won her inheritance, but the price was learning that her entire childhood had been a battlefield she hadn’t known she was fighting on.
Theodore approached, his expression gentler than she’d ever seen it. «Your mother was a remarkable woman, Margot.»
«She protected you the only way she could… by hiding the truth.»
«By preserving it,» Theodore corrected. «She knew Patricia would destroy any evidence she found. So she created a puzzle that only you could solve, hidden in the one place Victoria would never think to look thoroughly: the house filled with your mother’s memory.»
