13/11/2025
“Bury me with my Tesla.”
The whole salon went silent. Hair dryers stopped mid-air. Someone dropped a comb.
I held the will in my hand, reading my client’s final words aloud, but I could feel Elizabeth’s eyes burning through me. Across the marble floor, she tilted her sunglasses and hissed, “That car belongs to me.”
Mary, the first wife, clutched her Bible. Her voice trembled. “Let his wishes stand.”
Elizabeth shot to her feet so fast her gold bangles clanged like warning bells. “Over my dead body,” she snapped. “No one is putting that Tesla underground. Not while I’m alive.”
The staff pretended to sweep hair, but everyone was listening. Even the driver, Paul, froze outside the glass door, his cloth still on the hood of the Tesla.
I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice steady, though my pulse hammered in my ears.
“These are the legal instructions of the late Mr. Wellington.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice sharp enough to cut skin.
“Legal or not, that car is mine. And if anyone tries to move it, they’ll regret it.”
What she didn’t know — what NONE of them knew — was that the next line of the will would shatter the room completely.
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