Chapter 6 - SKYLAR'S HOUSE WASN'T FREE
Skylar called two months later.
Crying.
That scared me more than Luke's anger.
Skylar never cried where people could hear.
“What's wrong?”
“The Miami house.”
“What about it?”
“There's debt.”
I frowned.
Grandpa's will transferred it outright.
At least I thought.
“How?”
“Property taxes. Association fees. Insurance. Staff contracts.”
She sounded furious.
“Grandpa didn't leave a maintenance trust?”
“No.”
Of course he didn't.
Prize without stewardship.
Exactly.
“What are the annual costs?”
Silence.
“Skylar.”
“Almost four hundred thousand.”
I whistled.
She snapped:
“Not helpful.”
“You got a million cash.”
“I'm using it.”
“For maintenance?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
No answer.
Designer renovations.
I could hear it.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to sell.”
“Then sell.”
“There's a restriction.”
My stomach tightened.
“What restriction?”
Grandpa had added a two-year no-sale condition.
Skylar screamed:
“Who does that?”
Samuel Fletcher.
Obviously.
“Why?”
“He wanted us trapped!”
No.
He wanted consequences to last longer than excitement.
But I didn't say that.
“Can you rent it?”
“No short-term leases.”
“Long-term?”
“Maybe.”
“Then do that.”
“I don't want strangers in my house.”
I almost laughed.
“Then pay.”
“Jade!”
There.
“Can the trust help?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I've read the rules.”
“You're really doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Watching us struggle while you sit in Monaco controlling billions.”
I closed my eyes.
Her words hurt.
Because from her perspective, maybe that was exactly what it looked like.
“I don't live off billions.”
“Please.”
“My stipend is $180,000.”
Silence.
To my family, wealthy.
To the trust, controlled.
Skylar laughed bitterly.
“I spend more than that on travel.”
“That's the problem.”
She hung up.
I sat in my office overlooking Port Hercules.
For the first time, I hated Grandpa's plan.
He had created comparison.
He knew it.
Maybe intended it.
Everyone received enough to expose habits.
I received responsibility large enough to expose mine.
Was that fair?
No.
Family inheritances rarely are.
Then Margaret entered.
“You look angry.”
“I am.”
“At Samuel?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I hated that everyone celebrated doubt.
“He could've helped them without setting this up like an experiment.”
“Yes.”
“He could've told them what money required.”
“Yes.”
“He could've given them training.”
“He did.”
I stared.
“What?”
Margaret opened a file.
Letters.
Before the will, Samuel had offered each adult grandchild enrollment in the Fletcher Governance Program.
Finance.
Trusts.
Taxes.
Estate management.
Board observation.
All expenses paid.
Luke refused.
Skylar attended one session.
My mother declined on behalf of herself and my father.
I attended without knowing what it was.
“What?”
Remember those Saturday workshops Grandpa required for employees?
Risk.
Accounting.
Negotiation.
Ethics.
I went to all.
Those were modules.
He had hidden education inside work.
Again:
Manipulation and preparation.
Both.
Margaret said:
“Samuel could've been clearer.”
“Understatement.”
“But your family was not denied information entirely.”
Fair.
Then she handed me another file.
My next rotation.
Switzerland.
A medical-device company.
Fletcher trust held majority control.
Problem:
CEO wanted to close a plant in Ohio.
My state.
Three hundred jobs.
Plant barely profitable.
Swiss facility cheaper.
Board wanted relocation.
I looked at Margaret.
“Grandpa designed these.”
“No.”
“He found every moral headache on Earth and left it to me.”
“That part might be true.”
I went to Ohio first.
Not Switzerland.
Talked to workers.
The plant was inefficient.
Old equipment.
High scrap rate.
Poor layout.
But workers had solutions.
Management never funded them.
I asked finance what modernization cost.
$42 million.
Relocation cost:
$61 million.
Why move?
Long-term labor savings.
Five-year payback.
Then I found the catch.
Ohio plant produced a specialty pediatric valve with lower defect rates than the Swiss line.
Relocating created regulatory risk.
Board packet barely mentioned it.
Again.
What aren't they telling you?
I proposed modernization.
Board resisted.
I offered milestones.
If plant failed after eighteen months, relocation reconsidered.
Workers accepted productivity goals.
Management hated shared accountability.
Good.
Vote passed narrowly.
Eighteen months later, the Ohio plant became the company's most profitable.
That story later appeared in business magazines.
My family read it.
My father texted:
Proud of you.
First time in years.
I stared at the message for five minutes.
Then answered:
May you like
Thank you.
My mother said nothing.
