Chapter 3 The Will
Jace
Death had a smell.
Most people didn’t realize it.
It wasn’t the metallic tang of blood.
Or the sterile scent of hospitals.
Or even the delicate perfume of funeral flowers.
No.
Death smelled of paperwork.
Stacks upon stacks of it.
Lawyers in stiff suits.
Endless signatures scrawled in black ink.
Meetings that stretched on for hours.
Documents waiting to be filed, sealed, and locked away.
The suffocating bureaucracy left behind when someone important died.
I sat at the long mahogany conference table, the polished surface gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights. My gaze drifted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a rain-soaked view of downtown Seattle.
Rain streaked the glass in relentless sheets, blurring the city skyline into a watercolor of grays and blues.
Typical Seattle.
As if the weather itself refused to let go of grief, mourning alongside us.
Three weeks.
Three goddamn weeks since we laid my grandfather to rest.
Yet somehow, the reality still hadn’t fully settled in.
Maybe because I’d spent these past weeks locked in an exhausting battle to keep Walker Foundation Construction Group from crumbling beneath the weight of loss.
Maybe because grief demanded time and time I could not afford.
A chair scraped sharply against the floor.
I looked up.
Logan Hayes entered the room, leather folder tucked under one arm, two steaming coffees in his hands.
One black.
One with enough cream to offend the very concept of health.
Mine.
“Thought you could use this,” he said, setting the cup down gently before me.
I accepted it, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers.
“You trying to poison me?” I teased.
“Eventually,” he grunted with a half-smile.
I snorted.
Logan settled into the chair beside me... fifty-one years old, a streak of silver at his temples, built like a retired linebacker.
He’d worked alongside my grandfather for nearly thirty years, and somehow, for the last fifteen, had been a constant in my life, part mentor, part babysitter, and mostly a pain in my ass.
“Sleep?” he asked.
“No.”
“Eat?”
“No.”
“Shower?”
I shot him a look.
He sighed heavily. “Thought so.”
I ignored him, as usual.
The conference room door opened again, and my stomach dropped.
Trent Walker stepped inside.
Every instinct screamed warning.
Well.
Shit.
Trent was exactly the kind of man my grandfather would have despised.
Impeccably dressed in an expensive suit.
An ostentatious watch glinting on his wrist.
A smile that never quite reached his cold, calculating eyes.
His gaze locked on me. Smug, satisfied, as if he held secrets I wasn’t privy to.
A heavy knot settled deep in my gut.
“You look nervous, cousin,” he said smoothly.
I leaned back in my chair, meeting his smirk with a cool stare. “You look unemployed.”
His smile twitched.
Logan stifled a cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Trent shot him a venomous glare.
Logan didn’t care.
No one did.
Least of all my grandfather.
He had spent years keeping Trent at bay, legally barred from the company’s reins.
That made Trent’s presence here all the more alarming.
More family members filtered in, board members, executives, legal counsel.
Then, finally, the attorney arrived.
Robert Whitmore.
Seventy years old.
Sharp as a tack.
And utterly unimpressed by anyone’s attempts at intimidation.
The room fell silent.
Whitmore placed a thick binder on the table, adjusted his glasses, and sat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, voice steady and unyielding.
No preamble.
No condolences.
Just business.
Exactly as my grandfather would have wanted.
“We are gathered today for the formal reading of the Last Will and Testament of Mr. William Walker.”
The room stilled.
Whitmore opened the binder.
“Before we begin, I would like to remind everyone that this document was executed legally, witnessed appropriately, and reviewed multiple times prior to Mr. Walker’s passing.”
Translation:
Don’t bother arguing.
The will stands.
Whitmore continued.
Several smaller bequests came first.
Charitable donations.
Family inheritances.
Trust distributions.
Properties.
Investments.
Nothing surprising.
Nothing concerning.
Then, turning the page, everything changed.
“Regarding Walker Foundation Construction Group.”
Every executive straightened.
Including me.
Whitmore read aloud.
“‘To my grandson, Jace Walker, who has faithfully served as Acting Chief Executive Officer for the past fifteen years and who has demonstrated unwavering commitment to the company and its employees…’”
I allowed myself a brief moment of relief.
Good.
This was proceeding as expected.
“‘I leave controlling ownership, voting authority, and permanent appointment as Chief Executive Officer under the following conditions.’”
My stomach twisted.
Conditions?
Beside me, Logan’s brow furrowed.
Across the table, Trent’s smile widened.
Whitmore continued.
“‘My grandson must be legally married within thirty calendar days of the reading of this will.’”
Silence.
Pure.
Absolute.
Silence.
I blinked once.
Twice.
Surely I’d misheard.
Whitmore pressed on. “‘Said marriage must remain legally valid and intact for a minimum period of one year.’”
Chaos erupted.
“What?”
“Is this serious?”
“Married?”
“Are you kidding me?”
Board members spoke over one another.
Executives exchanged baffled looks.
Someone actually laughed.
Whitmore slammed his hand down.
The room quieted instantly.
Then he delivered the real blow.
“‘During the thirty-day compliance period, all executive authority, operational oversight, and decision-making powers shall be temporarily transferred to Trent Walker, who shall serve as Acting Chief Executive Officer until such time as these conditions are fulfilled.’”
Blood drained from my face.
Trent slowly reclined in his chair, that infuriating smile spreading.
“Excuse me?” I stammered.
Whitmore didn’t look up.
“‘Should Jace Walker satisfy the marriage requirement before the expiration of thirty days, all executive authority shall immediately revert to him.’”
My pulse thundered in my ears. “He can’t be serious.”
“He was very serious,” Whitmore said coolly.
I shoved back from the table, chair scraping the floor. “You’re handing the company to Trent?”
“Temporarily.”
“He’s going to destroy everything.”
Whitmore’s face remained stone-cold. “Then I suggest you get married quickly.”
A harsh laugh escaped Trent. The bastard actually laughed.
Logan muttered a curse under his breath.
Even a few board members shifted uncomfortably.
Because everyone here knew exactly what Trent would do.
Slash costs.
Kill projects.
Chase profits.
Gut everything my grandfather had spent fifty years building.
Whitmore went on.
“‘Should Jace Walker fail to satisfy these conditions within thirty calendar days, all temporary authority granted to Trent Walker shall become permanent and irrevocable.’”
Permanent.
The word pounded in my skull.
Thirty days.
Thirty days before everything my grandfather built belonged to Trent forever.
Thirty days before affordable housing projects vanished.
Before employees lost jobs.
Before communities suffered.
Thirty days.
Trent raised his coffee in a mock toast. “I look forward to working with everyone.”
I wanted to strike him.
Instead, I smiled. Cold. Dangerous. The kind of smile that spelled lawsuits and war.
“Don’t get comfortable.”
His grin faltered, just slightly.
Good.
Because there was one thing everyone in that room seemed to forget.
I didn’t lose.
Ever.
Thirty days.
A lifetime crammed into a month.
I didn’t have a girlfriend.
I didn’t have a fiancée.
Hell, I barely had time to sleep.
But somehow. Some way.
I was going to find a wife.
Because there was no goddamn chance I was letting Trent Walker get his hands on my grandfather’s legacy.
