The Will
The rain tapped softly against the stained glass windows of the Moretti family estate, each drop a reminder of the silence that hung like smoke in the grand study. The room, once full of life—echoing with laughter, arguments, and the clinking of fine glassware—now felt like a mausoleum. Only the thick scent of aged leather and dust remained, preserved like the memories it held.
Elena Moretti stood near the towering fireplace, arms folded tightly across her chest, her black dress clinging to her slim frame like a second skin. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, not a strand out of place. The heat from the flames did little to thaw the chill buried in her bones.
She hadn't set foot in this house in eight years.
Behind her, the heavy oak doors creaked open. Valentina entered, her heels clicking like metronomes of control. Her navy-blue jumpsuit, cinched with a silver belt, shimmered slightly with every step. Her long, raven hair flowed effortlessly over her shoulders, her makeup precise, her gaze sharper than ever.
"Elena," Valentina greeted with a cool nod, as if they were business associates, not sisters.
"Valentina," Elena replied, her voice low but steady.
The lawyer, a wiry man named Donato with spectacles that seemed to slide permanently down his nose, stood beside the desk holding the final envelope their father had left behind. His face bore the weight of discretion, though even he seemed unsettled by the drama that simmered beneath the surface.
"If I may," Donato cleared his throat, "your father was very specific in his final requests. This will is the last revision, dated three months before his passing."
He broke the wax seal with slow precision. The room seemed to shrink.
"Elena and Valentina," he began reading. "My daughters, my legacy. I know this may come as a surprise, but I ask you to hear me not as your father, but as the man who built Moretti Moda from nothing. I made mistakes—many. I lost your mother, I nearly lost you both. This company... this family... must survive beyond me. Which is why I have placed it in both your hands."
Donato looked up. "He continues."
"You will jointly inherit the company and my estate under one condition: you must run Moretti Moda together for twelve months. Equal power. Equal responsibility. Any failure to cooperate will result in the entire estate being donated to charity. I trust that you can find a way to forgive, and to rebuild—not just the business, but each other."
Silence followed. Not even the fire dared to crackle.
Elena turned toward the window, arms tightening across her chest. "He always wanted control—even from the grave."
Valentina's voice was as polished as it was cold. "He wanted a legacy. Not a feud."
Elena wheeled around. "Don't pretend you know what he wanted. You stayed. You played his game. You wanted this empire."
"And you ran," Valentina snapped. "You disappeared. Left the company, left me to deal with everything alone. That was your choice."
"I chose peace."
"You chose absence."
The air thickened, heavy with years of silence now breaking open like old wounds. Donato stepped back, clearly uncomfortable.
"I can come back later—"
"No," Valentina cut in, raising a hand. "We'll sign. Won't we, Elena?"
Elena met her sister's eyes. There were shades of pain, but also something unspoken—a flicker of what used to be. Before their mother's death. Before their father turned cold. Before their bond was sacrificed to ambition and grief.
She exhaled. "I'll sign. But only because I won't let him erase our mother's name from this brand."
Valentina's mouth tightened, just enough to betray the emotion beneath. "Agreed."
The sisters each took a pen. Donato laid out the documents like sacred relics. As ink met paper, the contract became real.
"You officially begin your co-leadership tomorrow," Donato said, gathering the folders. "You'll both have offices at the Milan headquarters. Your father left a transitional team, but ultimately—he left you."
As he exited, the room fell into an uneasy quiet. The fire hissed.
"I don't want your pity, Valentina," Elena said, turning her gaze to the portraits lining the far wall—snapshots of Moretti success, glossy smiles, hollow eyes.
"You won't get it," Valentina replied. "But I won't sabotage this either. We make this work. One year. Then we go our separate ways—richer and cleaner."
Elena hesitated. "One year."
She walked past Valentina without another word. But before reaching the door, she paused and spoke without turning.
"I didn't just leave because of him."
Valentina looked up. "Then why?"
Elena finally glanced back, her voice trembling. "Because the night Mom died... you blamed me."
Valentina's face shifted—first with shock, then denial, and finally, something she quickly buried. "That's not—"
But Elena was already gone.
Left alone in the grand study, Valentina slowly walked to the fireplace. Her eyes fell on the photograph above the mantle: their mother, soft-eyed and laughing, holding both daughters close. It had been taken the summer before everything fell apart.
She touched the frame. Her voice came out a whisper.
"I blamed myself too."