Chapter 5
FISHER
Granddad’s funeral is as lavish as I expected…
somewhere between a royal funeral and a presidential funeral, complete with a mausoleum and an elaborate headstone standing six feet high.
He’d be proud of the large crowd that gathered to pay tribute, and the spectacle of multiple Atlanta news stations parked at the cemetery covering the tragedy of Louis Fisher the Third’s loving family shedding tears over his outlandish grave.
It’s humiliating that my friends are here to witness the behavior of the Fisher family, but it’s also really nice to have them here in Atlanta supporting me.
As we pull up to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will, I glance over at Noah, who’s driving our rental SUV. Ally, Penn, and Hazel are squished into the back.
“Thanks again for being here, guys.”
“Of course, man,” Noah says, parking the vehicle. “We’re your best friends. We’ll always be here for you.”
Ally leans forward and pats my shoulder affectionately.
“You guys can just pick me up after the reading if you want. I can text you when it’s over.”
Penn shrugs. “We’ll just wait inside. We’ve got nowhere to be.”
Hazel, Penn’s girlfriend, leans against him. “Yeah, we want to be close by in case you need us.”
I nod, guilt coiling in my stomach. My friends all flew here with me thinking I’m heartbroken about my granddad, but I feel nothing…except perhaps a little guilt that I made a joke to my father about Granddad’s will just days before he died.
I wasn’t close to him. The man never even liked me.
I was the only Fisher grandchild not sobbing during the funeral, though.
Am I as cold-hearted and unfeeling as Louis Fisher the Third?
Or was everyone else just pretending; putting on a show for the cameras while they counted down the minutes until the service was over and they could find out what was in Granddad’s will for them?
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” The words feel forced as I unbuckle and slide out of the vehicle.
We head inside the building where we’re greeted with a marble lobby and comfortable seating area.
Double doors are open to a large office space with a massive polished desk inside.
I can see the rest of the Fisher family gathered around the office.
My friends make themselves comfortable in the lobby while I join my family.
As I walk into the room, everyone stares at me, and I know they’re all judging me for being the last to arrive. Although I’ve always felt like the black sheep of the family, the dark splotch on our perfect record, so I’m probably perpetuating my own insecurities onto them.
One of my cousins wrinkles her nose as she looks at me. Okay, maybe I was giving them too much credit. I glance down at my Italian leather shoes and custom black suit and wonder what the hell offends her so much.
My eldest cousin, Gerald, looks down his nose at me—or, up his nose? I’m way taller. “Ahh, Archibald. How’s…what is it you play again? Lacrosse?”
His wife eyes me up and down appreciatively while he’s not looking.
“Hockey, actually,” I answer with my most charming grin, shooting his wife a wink that makes her blush.
Gerald glances at her in time to see her red face and steps forward to hinder her view. “Ahhh, right. Vanderbilt doesn’t have an NCAA hockey team…that must be why I got it mixed up.”
I shrug, knowing he didn’t mix anything up. “Yeah, lacrosse was honestly too boring for me. Anyone can play a sport on the ground…but add ice and everything is more fun.”
“Fun,” he says the word slowly, like it’s a different language. “Interesting.”
My father sidles up on my other side. “Why are you late?” he asks through gritted teeth.
Normally I’d prickle at his tone, but right now I’m just grateful he stepped in so I don’t have to make small talk with Gerald any longer. “Sorry, we ended up at the back of the procession.”
An older man, presumably Granddad’s lawyer, clears his throat from where he’s seated behind the desk. The man is holding a thick stack of paperwork. “I believe everyone’s here now, so let’s get started.”
The room quiets down, and I can feel the tension humming around us as my family members collectively hold their breath, trying to look as calm and disinterested as possible.
It would be considered uncouth, distasteful even, to show interest in the billions of dollars that are about to be distributed, but I can tell that inside, they’re screaming for their portion of the money.
I slouch against the back wall, just wanting it to be over so I can go home to California already and put a few thousand miles between myself and this circus.
The lawyer adjusts his tortoiseshell reading glasses and dives right into Granddad’s will.
For the most part, there are no surprises.
I wasn’t being a total asshole when I made that comment at breakfast a few days ago about my inheritance—Granddad was always vocal about distributing his wealth to all of his family members after he passed.
Not to be generous, but because he wanted his legacy to be upheld by keeping as much wealth as possible behind the Fisher name.
My father and his two younger sisters inherit equal shares in Fisher Group, but my father continues as CEO. Granddad’s billion dollar estate will be sold and the profits divided equally between all three of them. And then, onto the grandchildren.
My cousins and my brother will receive multi-million dollar inheritances. The lawyer drones on and on with no mention of me. As the minutes tick by, my palms grow sweaty and I start to wonder if Grandad actually left me out of his will. Did the man hate me that much?
After what feels like hours, the lawyer finally pauses and looks directly at me.
“And lastly, Archibald Fisher…your granddad recently added a clause for your inheritance.” The man’s eyes shift away as if he feels uncomfortable relaying whatever my grandad told him.
He clears his throat. “He stated you’re only to receive your inheritance after marriage, with proof via marriage certificate. ”
My whole body goes numb. Did I hear him correctly?
Surely this is a dream—or a nightmare. I glance around the room to find everyone staring at me.
Beads of sweat gather on my brow under everyone’s scrutiny, and I turn to look at my father, expecting him to look shocked—but he won’t meet my eye.
Instead, he looks ahead, clearly furious that I’ve embarrassed him yet again.
“That’s not all.” The lawyer clears his throat, at least having the decency to look awkward. “Archibald, your granddad’s will also states that you need to be married before the next NHL season begins in October.” He pauses and swallows, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
My body goes completely numb. That only gives me six months.
“And if you haven’t met the requirements for your inheritance before then, that money will be donated to your cousin’s Georgia state representative campaign.”
My eyes fly back to Gerald Ephraim-Fisher, and the smug prick stares back at me with a cocky smirk on his face. He thinks he has this in the bag.
I don’t hear anything else the lawyer says, my mind still processing this new information. Just like I don’t need my trust fund, I don’t need the inheritance…but I want it. If that makes me a terrible person, sue me.
Listen, no one would say no to millions of dollars.
Especially not when their future in their career is as uncertain as mine is right now.
And the thought of all that money going to fund my cousin’s stupid vanity campaign irritates me even more.
Which I’m sure was a purposeful move on the old man’s part.
I should know by now that he’ll do whatever it takes to get what he wants—to manage and control everyone else—even from beyond the grave.
Granddad has perfectly orchestrated the conditions for me to receive my inheritance.
I need to sell my soul to Satan…uh, I mean, pledge my allegiance to the family’s expectations and stop being an embarrassment.
As if on cue, my cousin Sloane titters behind her manicured hand. “How mortifying for you, Archie,” she whispers, her sugar-sweet tone laced with poison. “I’ll be checking the mail and waiting for my invitation to your unholy matrimony.”
I ignore her, my mind whirling…they all think I'm a screw up? They don’t even know how unhinged I can be.
Hell, maybe I’ll marry a stranger just so I can donate my inheritance to fund an art program at a state college, or any university besides Vanderbilt.
I could donate it to Penn’s youth hockey team—they’d hate that.
I don’t care where the money goes, as long as it doesn’t further line the pocket of Gerald, who has absolutely zero knowledge of politics.
He probably just wants a damned flag pin.
When my family begins to filter out of the room, I know the meeting is over, and I sigh in defeat. I turn to leave, but my father blocks my exit by standing directly in front of me and pressing a hand to the center of my chest. “You’ve brought this upon yourself, Archibald.”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh.
My father drags a hand down his face before groaning in frustration.
“Your granddad didn’t even tell me about these added stipulations.
I thought threatening your trust fund in front of him was going to be enough to pull you back into line, but clearly your granddad decided the situation called for a contingency plan. ”
“Maybe I could go on The Bachelor and find a wife quickly?” My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, and I’m met with an icy glare.
“Son, this isn’t a joke. This is an embarrassment to you.
To all of us. With everything going on, I’m needed here in Atlanta, which leaves your brother flying back and forth between here and San Francisco to wrap up closing on the property and securing the right permits.
” His stern gaze meets mine. “And in order for us to get those permits, you need to show everyone that you’ve got your life under control and your priorities in order.
No more partying.” He unbuttons his suit jacket, settling his hands on his waist. “And on that note, I meant what I said last week. There will also be no more trust fund until you show me you can handle things like a mature adult.”
“Fine,” I reply. Even though my heart’s racing, because nothing is fine.
No trust fund, no inheritance, and a contract that expires when the playoffs are over…
nevermind that it feels like my family is abandoning me.
It’s a lot to process at once. “I live in San Francisco, why don’t you just let me prove myself by helping?
” I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue, waiting for his answer.
“Because I don’t trust you yet,” he says dryly, like he’s telling me he’s heading to the supermarket after this.
“All that nonsense last week about heritage properties and finding new sites to build on, not to mention you failed to complete the simple task of sweetening up the mayor by spending time with his daughter. This isn’t just a game like hockey… it’s a multi-million dollar sale.”
When I was a boy, it was crushing when my father would casually dismiss hockey—the only thing I was ever good at, ever passionate about pursuing—like this. When I grew into a teenager, it only bolstered my rebellious nature. But now that I’m a man, it just pisses me off.
I’m not about to act like I’m not privileged.
I haven’t wanted for anything financially.
But I’ve worked hard for everything I’ve achieved.
I made it through college, kept my grades up so my coach wouldn’t bench me.
My dedication got me an NHL contract…but nothing I do will ever be good enough for Louis Fisher the Fourth.
“Understood,” I finally answer.
“Good.” He claps my bicep. “The Fisher jet is waiting at the airport to take you back.” My father glances down at his watch with a sigh then leaves without so much as a goodbye.
I stand there for a minute before my feet finally move, carrying me out of the office.
My steps are robotic as I move into the lobby toward where my friends are sitting in a row quietly, wearing matching uncomfortable expressions.
That’s when I realize the doors of the office stayed open the entire time.
“How much did you hear?” I ask, unsure if I really want the answer.
The four of them glance awkwardly at each other but none of them answer my question.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, turning and walking out the front doors into the fresh spring air. Inhaling a deep breath, I try to let the tension in my shoulders roll away.
Penn steps up next to me and drapes an arm across my shoulders. “You okay?”
“Never been better,” I snort a laugh, forcing a grin. “Let’s get to the airport. The sooner we step onto the Fisher Group’s private jet, the sooner we can get shit-faced.”
He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond.
As we drive away, I don’t look back. I’m the picture of relaxed and cool. I loosen my tie and joke around as usual, but inside, my mind is spinning at a million miles per hour. My family thinks I’m a screw up? I’d like to show them just how much of a black sheep I really am.