KATRINA felt her breath hitch a little as her voice rose in disbelief. âYouâre not serious?â
It was a joke. A tasteless, sick joke. Except lawyers didnât sink to this level of facetiousness during a professional consultation. âDear God,â she said irreverently. âYou are serious.â
The man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk shifted his shoulders, and eased into a well-rehearsed platitude. âYour late father expressed concern at the difficulties you might incur.â
Difficulties didnât even begin to describe the shenanigans her extended dysfunctional family were heaping on her head.
Not that this was anything new. She had been the favoured one for as long as she could remember. Daddyâs golden girl. His only child. A constant, immovable thorn in the side of his second and third wives and their child apiece from previous marriages.
No one could say her life hadnât been interesting, Katrina reflected. Three paternal divorces, two scheming ex-wives, and two equally devious stepsiblings.
During her formative years sheâd been able to escape to boarding school. Except for holidays at home, most of which had been hell on wheels as sheâd fought a battle in an ongoing war where reality had been a seething sea of emotional and mental one-upmanship beneath the façade of pleasant inter-family relationships.
The time between each of her fatherâs divorces had proved to be the lull before the next storm, and instead of bowing her down it had merely strengthened her desire to be a worthy successor to his extensive business interests.
Much to the delight of the man whoâd sired her.
Now, that same man was intent on reaching out a hand from the grave to resurrect a part of her life she fought on a daily basis to forget.
Katrina cast the lawyer a penetrating look. âHe canât do this,â she refuted firmly as she attempted to hide the faint tide of panic that was slowly invading her body.
âYour father had your best interests at heart.â
âMaking the terms of his will conditional on me effecting a reconciliation with my ex-husband?â she queried scathingly. It was ridiculous!
âI understand a divorce has not been formalised.â
Her level of desperation moved up a notch. She hadnât got around to it and, as no papers had been served on her, neither had Nicos.
âI have no intention of allowing Nicos Kasoulis back into my life.â
Greek-born, Nicos had emigrated to Australia at a young age with his parents. As a young adult heâd gained various degrees, then had entered the hi-tech industry, inheriting his fatherâs extensive business interests when both parents died in an aircraft crash. Katrina had met him at a party, their instant attraction mutual, and theyâd married three months later.
âKevin appointed Nicos Kasoulis an executor,â the lawyer relayed. âShortly before his death, your father also appointed him to the board of directors of Macbride.â
Why hadnât she been apprised of that? Dammit, she held a responsible position in the Macbride conglomerate. Choosing not to take her into his confidence was paternal manipulation at its worst.
Her chin lifted fractionally. âI shall contest the will.â Dammit, he couldnât do this to her!
âThe conditions are iron-clad,â the lawyer reiterated gently. âEach of your fatherâs ex-wives will receive a specified lump sum plus an annuity until such time as they remarry, sufficient to support a reasonable lifestyle in the principal residence they gained at the time of their divorce. There are a few bequests to charity, but the remainder of the estate passes in equal one-third shares to you and Nicos, with the remaining share being held in trust for your children. There is a stipulation,â he continued, âmaking it conditional both you and Nicos Kasoulis refrain from filing for divorce, and reside in the same residence together for the minimum term of one year.â
Had Nicos Kasoulis known of these conditions when heâd attended her fatherâs funeral less than a week ago?