“Mrs. Stone,” he began in a professional voice, “I understand that you wish to transfer the property located at Greenwich Village, 247, apartment 302, to your son, Robert Stone. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” I replied, keeping my voice tired, resigned.
“Excellent. I have prepared the necessary documents. I just need you to review them and sign here, here, and here.”
He pointed to several lines with his expensive pen.
I took the papers. I pretended to read them carefully. In reality, I was observing everyone’s reactions. Rob looked at the floor, uncomfortable. Chelsea couldn’t hide the gleam of triumph in her eyes. Gerald maintained his professional mask, but I saw him exchange a quick glance with Chelsea.
“These documents,” I said slowly, “indicate that I transfer the property voluntarily, without receiving anything in return. Is that correct?”
“Correct,” Gerald replied. “It is a lifetime donation to your direct heir. Perfectly legal.”
“And what about Ethan?” I asked.
Chelsea leaned forward, crossing her legs.
“Dear Elellanena, let’s be realistic. Your grandson attacked an adult woman. That is a serious crime. I can’t just forget about it.”
“But you said—”
“I didn’t say anything,” she interrupted me with a cold smile. “You said you wanted to transfer the house. I simply agreed to come and witness this act of maternal generosity.”
The venom in her words was evident.
I looked at Rob.
“Do you also think that?” I asked. “Do you think your son deserves to be in a juvenile facility?”
Rob finally looked up. There was something in his eyes—shame, guilt. But he didn’t say anything. He simply lowered his gaze again.
“Rob has learned to trust me,” Chelsea said, placing her hand on my son’s arm with a possessive gesture. “He knows that I only seek the best for our family. And frankly, Ethan has been a problem since I came into your lives.”
“A problem?” I repeated. “He is a child.”
“He’s a manipulator,” Chelsea spat. “Like you. Trying to separate us with lies and melodrama.”
Gerald cleared his throat uncomfortably, as if Chelsea were saying more than she should, but she didn’t stop.
“Do you have any idea how many times that brat has tried to convince Rob that I’m a bad person? How many lies he has invented about me?” she demanded.
“Maybe they weren’t lies,” I said softly.
