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Story 22: Death of a Monarch

“Plots, true or false, are necessary things. To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.” - John Dryden

When Malcolm Godfrey died, the family mansion smelled like roses and rot. The staff said it was from the lilies piled around the casket. But the truth was that the stench had been in the house long before he passed.

Malcolm was a banker by trade, a manipulator by nature, and a savior by choice. To the public, he was a self-made philanthropist who never forgot where he came from. To his family, he was a monarch. One they all adored in public and despised in private.

He paid their bills, funded their lawsuits, covered their gambling debts, and tolerated their failures. Not because he loved them, but because power felt better when it was owed. He never said it out loud. He never had to.

At the funeral, they cried with practiced sincerity. Every tear was an audition for the role of most devastated child.

Three sons. Two daughters. One ex-wife who stayed close enough to collect alimony and far enough to avoid scrutiny. And dozens of extended relatives who claimed they were “closer to Malcolm than anyone knew.”

There was Alan, the eldest son, whose tech startup flopped after Malcolm sank two million into it. Julia, the bitter second daughter, a lawyer who hadn’t practiced law in six years. Matthew, the charming youngest son with more DUIs than degrees. Nina, the quiet artist who made sculptures of birds but couldn’t afford rent without her father’s monthly wire transfer. And finally, Genevieve-the middle child and the sharpest of them all-who had married well, divorced richer, and returned home just in time for the reading of the will.

They all moved into the estate temporarily after Malcolm’s passing. “To handle affairs,” they claimed. But really, it was to sniff out the treasure chest before anyone else got to it.

They ate dinner together in uncomfortable silence. Smiled through gritted teeth. Pretended to be a family again-if only for appearances.

Malcolm's estate was worth tens of millions. Everyone knew that. Stocks. Property. Rare coins. Art collections. Offshore accounts. They’d spent years circling him like vultures with silk napkins.

When the lawyer postponed the reading of the will, tension thickened. For two weeks, they lived under one roof. Secrets resurfaced. Old rivalries reignited.

Alan accused Julia of manipulating Malcolm during his final months. Julia insisted Alan was always the favorite, so of course he’d say that. Genevieve reminded them that Malcolm had hated all of them equally.

Matthew broke a vase during a drunken argument and screamed, “You all think you’re owed something! He didn’t love any of us!”

Silence followed. Because they all knew it was true.

The lawyer arrived on a stormy afternoon. They gathered in Malcolm’s oak-paneled study like anxious courtiers. Some wore black, others business casual. Genevieve wore red.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Per the instructions left in Mr. Godfrey’s final testament, I will read the will in full and without interruption.”

They leaned forward.

“To the staff of the Godfrey Estate, I leave severance packages totaling $500,000. You were the only consistent presence in my home.”

Some eye rolls. Polite claps.

“To my children, I leave my personal belongings. You may divide the household items among yourselves, though I suspect none of you will agree on anything.”

Confused looks. Julia raised a hand; the lawyer ignored her.

“My financial assets, investments, and holdings will be divided as follows:

• 40% will be donated to various literacy charities across the country.
  
  

• 60% will go to Ms. Evelyn Holt, a high school student from Marigold Prep.”
  
  

The room erupted.

Alan stood up. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

“Who the hell is Evelyn Holt?” Matthew slurred.

The lawyer continued, unfazed. “Ms. Holt met Mr. Godfrey during weekly visits to the public park. She would read to him, bring him sandwiches, and talk with him for hours about life, books, and meaning. Mr. Godfrey found her company to be... genuinely human.”

They stared in stunned disbelief. Their father had left them nothing but furniture and insults-and given a teenage girl tens of millions.

They met Evelyn a week later, during a press conference outside the courthouse.

She wore a navy school uniform, wrinkled at the collar. Her voice was soft. “I didn’t know he was rich. I just thought he was lonely.”

Cameras flashed. Julia tried to push her way in front of Evelyn, shouting, “She manipulated a grieving old man!”

Genevieve laughed coldly. “We’re the grieving ones. She’s the inheritor.”

Lawsuits came fast. The family filed for undue influence, claiming Evelyn exploited Malcolm’s mental state. They argued he was manipulated, that it was impossible for a man to leave his fortune to a girl with no blood ties.

The tabloids had a field day: Heiress High Schooler, The Godfrey Betrayal, Teens and Tycoons.

Evelyn kept her distance. She didn’t give interviews. She didn’t spend the money. She just kept going to school, buying her lunch like she always had, avoiding the mansion she now technically owned.

Privately, Evelyn cried.

She missed Malcolm. Not the man with money, but the old man who loved bad poetry and asked her whether kindness was taught or instinctual. He had listened to her in ways adults rarely did. He made her feel like her words mattered.

Now she was hated. Called a thief. A liar. A homewrecker of legacies.

She began to wonder if she should give the money away. But every time she came close to doing it, she remembered something he said:

“They wear masks even in front of mirrors. But you? You always showed me your real face. Never lose that.”

So she kept the inheritance. Not to spend-but to hold. Quietly.

The family kept fighting in court.

They drained what little they had left. Sold handbags. Auctioned off watches. Cried on reality TV specials. One of them-Matthew-got a podcast called Stolen Legacy. It flopped after ten episodes.

None of them worked.

None of them apologized.

They simply believed that the money had always belonged to them, and any outcome where it wasn’t theirs was inherently unjust.

Years passed.

Evelyn graduated. Got a degree in philosophy. Donated a third of the money to education programs and started a small foundation for underprivileged students. She never moved into the Godfrey estate. It was eventually turned into a museum-for a man she only knew as Malcolm, never as “monarch.”

The family? Still fractured. Still feuding. Still convinced that they were the victims of a crime.

But no jury agreed.

And no lesson stuck.

Because the monarch was dead.
And without a king, the court devoured itself.

They never mourned the man. Only what he left behind.