Grandpa's Heritage

I'm Shirley Lincoln, the only child of the third generation of the Lincoln Group. Since I was little, grandpa always kept me close, saying the Lincoln family's heritage would one day be mine. Three days ago, when I landed at Sea City Airport, the driver Peter picked me up. His hands were tight on the steering wheel the whole time, his expression uneasy, and he didn't say a word about anything at home. It wasn't until the car turned into the Lincoln Family's mansion alley paved with bluestones that I realized something was off. The usually quiet courtyard was filled with several strange cars, all the kinds that Second Uncle David Lincoln and Third Uncle Howard Lincoln usually drive. Holding my suitcase, I walked into the living room and saw Gavin Lincoln sitting right in the middle of the sofa. He's my dad, but at that moment, his back was stiff as a board, and the look he gave me was full of avoidance. Standing next to Gavin Lincoln was a man wearing tight black sportswear, his muscles stretching the fabric taut. His face was covered in bright white foundation, mascara smudged beneath his eyes, and when he saw me, a mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Shirley, you're back." Gavin Lincoln's voice was rough like sandpaper, stripped of its usual warmth. I said nothing, my gaze fixed on the stranger, waiting for him to explain. "This is Harry, Harry Lincoln." Gavin Lincoln paused for a full three seconds before struggling to say it out loud, "Your brother." The suitcase in my hand slammed onto the floor—not out of shock, but sheer disbelief—because the doctor had already told me that Gavin's years of heavy drinking had damaged his body, making it impossible for him to have children. The air in the living room froze instantly. Second Uncle David Lincoln quickly stood up and handed me a cup of warm water. His fingers traced the rim of the glass again and again, but he didn't dare meet my eyes. "Shirley, drink some water first. We'll talk it through slowly." I didn't take the glass of water, my eyes still locked on Gavin's face. "A brother? How come I didn't know I have a brother?" Gavin's face turned liver-colored with anger. Then suddenly, he slammed a gold-embossed document down on the mahogany table with a sharp "smack." "This is your grandfather's will." He pushed the document toward me, his voice tight. "He changed it before he died — the Lincoln family heritage is to go to Harry." I picked up the will. The cover was cool under my fingertips. I opened it, and the handwriting looked exactly like Grandfather's. But I remember Grandpa's writing habit, which is not like this. "When did Grandpa change the will?" I looked up and asked, my voice steady without a hint of wavering. "The day before he passed." Gavin Lincoln stared at the tips of his shoes. "Your grandma and I were both right there watching. No mistake." At that moment, Lily Clark came out from the inner room, her cane tapping the floor 'clack clack.' She came up to me, a silver bracelet sliding onto her wrist, the glare stabbing my eyes. "Shirley, the Lincoln family can't be without a male heir. Harry is the Lincolns' backbone; the inheritance belongs to him." I stared at Lily Clark's face. Her hair had gone a lot whiter since I left, but the greed in her eyes was impossible to hide. I remembered when Mom was alive, she never even made it to the delivery room. Grandpa stayed outside, smiling, saying, "Girls are good—girls are more affectionate than boys." "Grandma, Grandpa hated it most when people tried shady tricks." I laid the Will back on the table, my voice cold, "Are you absolutely sure he changed this Will of his own free will?" Harry suddenly laughed, his voice sharp like he was squeezing his throat: "Sister, don't deny it! It's all here in black and white. No matter how much you fuss, it won't do you any good!" I looked at Harry; his tight shirt had a luxury brand logo, his pants were ripped, and he wore a silver chain around his ankle. That look? He didn't have a trace of the wealthy heir vibe—instead, he looked like some street punk mixed up with the wrong crowd. "You're twenty-four this year, right?" I suddenly asked him, my tone calm. Harry puffed out his chest, clearly proud: "Yeah! I'm six years younger than you! But I'm way more capable. When the Lincoln Group's handed over to me, I'll run it way better than you ever could!"