Chapter 6

The smile on Mary's face froze. Her expression instantly distorted with rage.

She dropped her elegant act and screamed, "Fuck you! Who are you to decide? I bet you're just trying to steal my dad's fortune for yourself!"

Security guards quickly restrained her. Mr. Davis remained entirely unfazed.

"Next."

Mark nudged my dad's shoulder. "Jason, what do you think Dad's most precious thing is?"

Before my dad could speak, my mom pinched his arm. "None of your business!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Keep your secrets then. We found it anyway!"

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, beat-up car key.

"This is what my dad cherished most."

The key was ancient. It didn't belong to a Rolls-Royce or a Bentley, but to an old commercial truck.

Mark explained proudly, "This key belonged to Charles's very first delivery truck. Decades ago, he was driving it to make a delivery when he got caught in a massive landslide. The truck was severely damaged, yet it miraculously kept running just long enough to get him to safety."

"Since then, no matter how rich he got, he refused to sell it."

"For forty years, that truck has sat in the family garage. He had it serviced regularly and even hired someone to drive it weekly just to keep the engine from rusting. He treated that truck better than his own sons!"

It looked like Mark's private investigator had actually done some solid homework to dug up this piece of history.

I looked at Grandpa again. His fingers seemed to twitch.

Could it really be the truck key?

My parents began to sweat. Everyone stared at the lawyer.

Mr. Davis glanced at the key and said calmly, "This is not his most precious possession."

Mark lost his mind. He lunged at Mr. Davis, sobbing. "How can it not be? My investigator swore it was! Mr. Davis, look, if you let me inherit, I'll give you half! Please! If I don't get this money, I'm ruined!"

But Mr. Davis coldly brushed him off.

Now, only our family was left.

Everyone stared at the three of us, waiting for a trainwreck.

If we couldn't produce the right item either, over eight billion dollars would go straight to charity!

My dad took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he reached into his pocket.

Was it really the engagement ring?

I looked at my dad, then at Grandpa. Something didn't sit right with me.

What did Grandpa truly value? Something he would fake his own death just to get us to understand.

Suddenly, it hit me.

I grabbed my dad's hand. "Dad, don't. I know what Grandpa's most precious possession is."