The Last Heir of Blackwood Manor

Chapter One: The Gathering Storm

Seattle rain fell in relentless sheets, turning the Vance family cemetery into a sea of black umbrellas and muddy shoes. Flora Vance stood apart, her simple black coat soaked through, her hands trembling as she placed a single white rose on her father’s coffin. It was October 14th, 2023—the day Arthur Vance, real estate titan and patriarch, was lowered into the ground.

Arthur’s legacy was carved into the skyline from Chicago to London, but here at Blackwood Manor, his name felt heavy, almost suffocating. Flora was 26, pale and exhausted, having spent two years as her father’s nurse, confidant, and only companion as cancer devoured him. She’d changed sheets, managed morphine, and read to him when his eyes could no longer focus.

Ten feet away, under a canopy, stood her half-siblings Amal and Sarah. Amal, 32, checked his Rolex every few seconds, his Bluetooth earpiece flashing as he closed deals even at the funeral. Sarah, 29, dabbed at dry eyes with a silk handkerchief worth more than Flora’s entire outfit.

“Can we speed this up?” Amal muttered, loud enough for the priest to hear. “The reading’s at three.”

Flora flinched. “Amal, please,” she whispered. “He’s not even in the ground yet.”

Amal’s eyes were cold. “Save the theatrics, Ellie. We all know why you stayed in this drafty old house for two years cleaning up his mess. You’re playing the long game.”

“I stayed because he was my father,” Flora replied, voice trembling.

Sarah laughed, brittle and sharp. “You stayed because you have no career, no husband, and no prospects. You were his glorified maid. Today we finally settle the bill.”

The service ended abruptly. Amal and Sarah didn’t throw dirt on the coffin. They turned and walked to the waiting limousine. Flora knelt in the mud, her grief unshared. “I love you, Dad,” she whispered. “I hope you finally have peace.”

As she stood, she saw a figure watching from the porch. Mr. Silus Thorne, Arthur’s attorney and oldest friend, nodded solemnly. Flora felt a pit form in her stomach. She didn’t care about the money, but she knew her siblings were sharks circling for blood.

Chapter Two: The Will

Inside Blackwood Manor, the staff lined up anxiously. Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, clutched Flora’s hand. “Mr. Amal says you’ll be out by tonight.”

Flora straightened her spine. She had spent two years fighting death—she could spend one afternoon fighting for dignity. “Let’s go to the library,” she said softly. “It’s time.”

The library was Arthur’s sanctuary, now transformed into a courtroom. Mr. Thorne sat behind the massive desk, a sealed envelope before him. Amal swirled a glass of Arthur’s 50-year-old scotch, Sarah scrolled through Instagram, and Flora perched on a small wooden chair.

“Shall we begin?” Amal asked, glancing at his watch. “I have a flight to Aspen at eight.”

Thorne looked over his spectacles. “This is the last will and testament of Arthur James Vance, executed August 1st, 2023.”

Amal froze. “That’s a mistake. The will was written in 2019.”

“Mr. Vance updated his will multiple times,” Thorne replied. “This is the binding document.”

Sarah sat up straighter. “He was out of his mind with meds in August. He couldn’t sign anything.”

“I assure you,” Thorne’s voice dropped, “Mr. Vance was of sound mind and body. Witnessed and notarized.”

The rain lashed the windows as Thorne broke the seal. The tearing paper echoed like a gunshot.

“To my loyal staff,” Thorne began. “Mrs. Martha Higgins receives $250,000. Thomas Ali, the gardener, $150,000.”

From the hallway, a muffled sob. Amal rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Throw crumbs to the help. Get to the assets.”

Thorne continued, “To the charities in section B, Seattle Children’s Hospital and the Cancer Research Institute, I bequeath 20% of my liquid assets.”

Sarah shrieked. “That’s millions! He’s giving away our money to strangers!”

“His money, Sarah,” Flora said. “It was his money.”

“Shut up, nursemaid,” Amal snapped.

Thorne ignored them. “Now to the division of the primary estate.” He looked at Amal. “To my son, Amal Vance: You have a sharp mind for business and a sharper hunger for status. You believe being the eldest male entitles you to the kingdom. Over the last five years, I’ve watched you use the Vance name to bully competitors and leverage debt. You see people as numbers.”

Amal’s face reddened. “Is this a lecture or a will?”

Thorne read on. “I leave you my collection of vintage automobiles, valued at $4 million, and the advice to learn humility before you lose everything.”

Amal stood, knocking his scotch over. “Cars? Just the cars? The portfolio alone is worth $500 million!”

“Sit down, Mr. Vance,” Thorne commanded. Amal obeyed.

Thorne turned to Sarah. “To my daughter, Sarah: You have treated this family like a limitless credit card. You visited me only when you needed a check signed. I leave you the Vance jewelry collection, including your mother’s diamonds, valued at $3 million. May they bring you the attention you crave.”

Sarah gasped. “Three million? My mortgage is $50,000 a month!”

“That leaves the remainder of the estate,” Thorne said, looking at Flora. Amal and Sarah turned slowly, eyes wide with shock and hatred.

“The house,” Amal hissed. “The stocks, the holdings. He gave it all to her. To the mouse.”

Flora felt lightheaded. She hadn’t expected this. She just wanted to keep the house, to keep her father’s memory alive.

Thorne’s expression softened, then hardened. “To my daughter, Flora,” he read, pausing for ten agonizing seconds. “You were the only one who stayed. You were the only one who cared. You sacrificed your youth to wipe the brow of a dying old man.”

Flora began to cry silently.

“But,” Thorne continued, “I am a businessman, Flora, and I fear you are too soft for this world. If I leave you the company, Amal and Sarah will tear you apart in court within a year. They will destroy you.”

Flora’s heart stopped.

“Therefore,” Thorne read, voice heavy, “I cannot leave the burden of the Vance Empire to you. It would be a curse, not a gift.”

Amal and Sarah looked confused. “So who gets it?” Amal stammered.

Thorne turned the page. “The entirety of the Vance liquid assets, controlling shares of Vance Global, and Blackwood estate are to be placed into a blind trust managed by a board of directors until a worthy heir reveals themselves.”

“A worthy heir?” Sarah asked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Thorne said, closing the folder, “none of you get the empire. Not today.”

“This is insane!” Amal yelled. “Who is the heir?”

Thorne reached into his briefcase, pulling out a silver flash drive. “There is a second clause—a test of character. Arthur recorded a video message three days before he died, to be played if the family began fighting.”

Thorne plugged in the drive. The screen flickered to life. Arthur, frail but sharp-eyed, spoke:

“Hello, children. If you’re watching this, you’re disappointed. Good. I knew Amal would want power. Sarah would want money. Flora would just want everyone to stop fighting. So, I’ve set up a game—a final test. Scattered across the estate and city are clues. The key to the fortune lies in the hands of the person none of you have looked in the eye for 20 years.”

The screen went black. Silence.

“Who?” Sarah whispered.

Flora looked around, then at the open library door. Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, stood trembling, holding a tray of tea.

“Mrs. Higgins?” Flora asked softly.

The old woman looked up, terror in her eyes. “I have a letter, Miss Flora. Mr. Arthur gave it to me. He said to give it to you when the yelling started.”

Amal lunged, but Flora was faster. “Don’t you touch her!” Flora screamed, fire igniting in her belly.

Amal sneered. “Hand it over, Ellie. It belongs to the family.”

“I am the family,” Flora said, voice shaking but firm.

She took the envelope. Inside was a single sentence and a set of coordinates. “The true wealth isn’t in the bank, Ellie. It’s where we lost everything. Go to the old mill.”

The old mill—the place where Flora’s mother, Arthur’s first wife, died in a tragic accident 20 years ago. A place Amal and Sarah knew nothing about.

“I know where to go,” Flora said.

“Tell us!” Amal demanded.

“No,” Flora said. “This is my father’s last wish, and I’m going to finish it.”

She ran out into the pouring rain. “Get the car!” Amal screamed. “Follow her!”

Chapter Three: The Race

Flora’s hands shook as she started her battered sedan. The engine sputtered, coughed, and finally roared to life as Amal sprinted down the steps, rage on his face. Sarah struggled behind him in her heels.

Flora peeled out of the driveway, gravel spraying. “Sorry, Dad,” she whispered, gripping the wheel. “But I’m not letting them win.”

The old mill was 20 miles away, deep in pine forests bordering the estate—a place of ghosts. Her mother died there when Flora was six, a structural collapse that haunted Arthur for life.

Bright headlights flooded her rearview mirror. Amal’s black G-Wagon was gaining fast. He wasn’t just following—he was trying to run her off the road.

The road twisted into Devil’s Elbow, a notorious stretch hugging river cliffs. The G-Wagon tapped her bumper, her car fishtailed. “He’s crazy,” Flora gasped, correcting the steering.

Her phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number. “Take the logging road. Mile marker 4. Trust me, Thorne.”

Mile marker 4 appeared. The logging road was a mud-choked track. Flora made a split-second decision. She slammed on the brakes, Amal swerved, and Flora yanked the wheel onto the dirt path.

Mud flew up, branches whipped the windows, but she knew this path. Arthur had brought her here once. “The easy road is crowded, Ellie,” he’d told her. “The hard road is lonely, but it leads to the truth.”

The trees broke. The old mill loomed, skeletal and rusted. Flora skidded to a halt, killed the engine, and grabbed her flashlight.

She climbed the gate, dropped to the other side as Amal’s engine roared in the distance. She ran to the supervisor’s office—a small concrete block above the raging river.

Inside, mildew and stale oil. Just a metal desk, broken chair, rusted filing cabinets. She tore open drawers—nothing. Then the screech of tires. Doors slamming. “She’s in there!” Sarah’s voice.

Break the lock, Amal commanded.

Flora was trapped. She scanned the room. The coordinates were specific. Under the desk, the linoleum was peeling. She tore it back—embedded in the concrete, a modern digital safe.

She tried her father’s birthday. Error. Date of death. Error. One attempt left.

The door burst open. Amal, wet and muddy, Sarah with a tire iron. “Get away from the desk,” Amal growled.

“You found it,” Sarah said greedily.

“Move, Flora. You don’t know the code.”

“I am family!” Flora cried.

Amal shoved her. He punched in a code—system locked.

Suddenly, the room hummed. Steel shutters slammed down. The door locked. They were sealed in.

A speaker crackled. Arthur’s pre-recorded voice: “If you’re hearing this, someone tried to force their way in. Greed is impatient. Greed guesses. Greed pushes.”

Flora realized—the safe was a decoy. The lockout triggered the real mechanism. The desk clicked. A false bottom released. Flora pulled out a leatherbound journal and a heavy brass key.

She opened the journal. “October 14th, 2003. Today I lost my wife. Today I realized my children are being poisoned by my money. I have to start over.”

She scanned the pages. “He was being blackmailed,” she whispered. “By your grandfather. By Senator Sterling.”

Sarah froze. “That’s a lie. Grandpa Sterling was a senator.”

“He threatened Arthur—ruin his business if he didn’t marry his daughter. Our whole fortune was built on a crime.”

Silence. The revelation hung in the air.

“I want it anyway,” Amal said coldly. “Give me the key.”

“It’s not a bank key,” Flora said. “It’s an address—St. Jude’s Orphanage, East Wing.”

The speaker crackled. “You have ten minutes. Oxygen is limited. Solve the circuit breaker or pass out. The choice is yours.”

Flora looked at the wires. “I need help. Amal, you’re an engineer. Sarah, you have small hands.”

“Why should we help?” Sarah cried.

“If we don’t, the Vance line ends here,” Flora said.

For the first time in 20 years, the siblings worked together. As the final wire connected, the door hissed open. Cold air rushed in. They tumbled out into the rain.

Amal pointed at Flora. “You got lucky, Ellie. But the orphanage—I know that place. I’m going to get there first.”

Flora clutched the journal. She had the map. But the real danger wasn’t her brother—it was the people who blackmailed her father.

Chapter Four: The Secret Heir

Flora drove to Sal’s 24-hour diner, hands shaking. She needed light, coffee, and to read the journal.

Her father’s frantic handwriting painted a terrifying picture. Sterling threatened Arthur, sent a man—Cray—to his office, placing a photo of Flora at kindergarten on his desk. “If I leave, they’ll hurt her.”

Flora gasped. Her father hadn’t been cold because he didn’t love her—he pushed her away to protect her.

The last page: “I am dying. Cray works for the trust. They think the secrets die with me. But this journal is the insurance policy. Trust only the lawyer. And find the boy.”

“The boy?” Flora frowned.

A man slid into the booth—silver hair, charcoal suit, eyes like dead sharks.

“My name is Mr. Cray,” he said. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Flora’s hand covered the book. “It’s the truth. You blackmailed him.”

Cray sighed. “Business is complex. Your siblings are reasonable. They’re negotiating with the Sterling Trust.”

“You killed my mother,” Flora blurted.

Cray’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a dangerous thing to say. Your siblings are tearing up the highway for gold. You’re a problem.”

He reached into his jacket. “Give me the book and the key, and I’ll let you walk away.”

Flora looked around. The diner was empty. She gripped the key. “You’re afraid I’ll find him.”

Cray’s expression twitched—confirmation.

“There is no boy,” he snapped, grabbing her wrist.

Flora reacted, splashing hot coffee into his face. He roared, releasing her. Flora grabbed the journal and key, bolted for the door, dove into her car. Cray slammed his fist against the window, pulled a suppressed pistol. Flora sped away, ducking as the back window shattered.

She couldn’t go home or to the police. She had to go to the address on the key.

Chapter Five: The Truth Revealed

St. Jude’s Orphanage was a relic, surrounded by a high iron fence. Flora slipped through the gate, approached the main building. An elderly nun, Sister Margaret, opened the door.

“I’m Flora Vance, Arthur Vance’s daughter.”

The nun softened. “He said you might come. He built the new wing, came every Wednesday for 20 years.”

“I have a key,” Flora said.

Sister Margaret led her to the East Wing. A heavy oak door read “Director’s Archive.” Flora inserted the key. Inside was a shrine—photos of Arthur, a woman Flora didn’t recognize, and a baby boy.

A birth certificate: Gabriel Vance. Mother: Maria Santos.

“I have a brother,” Flora whispered.

A letter addressed to her: “My dearest Flora, if you are reading this, you have met the shadows that haunted me. The blackmail wasn’t just about money—it was about Gabriel. Maria was the love of my life. I hid Maria and Gabriel here. Gabriel is the true heir—not because he is a man, but because he has never known greed. You must protect him. Thorne has the documents to transfer the company, but only if you bring Gabriel to him alive. He works at the shipyard under the name Gabriel Santos. Go to him before Cray does.”

Flora dropped the letter. Gabriel, a 24-year-old brother working at the docks. The billionaire heir who didn’t know it. And Cray was coming.

Sister Margaret stood in the doorway, but wasn’t alone. Amal and Sarah, disheveled and furious, were behind her.

“Well, well,” Amal sneered. “The nun was very helpful once we threatened to buy the building.”

Sarah pushed past, eyes on the file box. “Is that the money?”

“It’s not money,” Flora said. “It’s a person.”

“Move,” Amal said, raising the crowbar. “Craig called us. He told us to end this.”

“You’re working with Cray!” Flora screamed. “He killed Mom. He threatened Dad.”

Amal yelled, “Dad disowned us. We have to survive.”

“He’s using you,” Flora cried. “There is another brother. A real heir.”

Amal froze. “What?”

“Gabriel. If Cray finds him, he’ll kill him. And if he kills him, do you think he’ll leave witnesses?”

Doubt flickered in Amal’s eyes. But heavy boots echoed down the hallway. Cray appeared, silenced pistol in hand. He shot Sister Margaret in the leg.

“Plans change,” Cray said, raising the gun toward Flora. “The boy Gabriel—where is he?”

Flora looked at the open window. Amal realized he wasn’t a partner—he was a loose end.

“Amal,” Flora said softly. “The coffee pot.”

Amal remembered the diner story. Distraction.

Cray stepped forward. “The location. Now.”

Flora grabbed the file box. “He’s at the shipyard,” she lied.

Cray smiled. “Good.” He turned the gun toward Amal. “No witnesses.”

Flora hurled the file box at the light bulb. The room plunged into darkness. “Run!” she screamed.

Chaos erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness. Amal tackled Cray. Flora shoved Sarah through the window. They tumbled into the alley, just as a gunshot blew out the frame.

Amal joined them, bleeding. “He’s coming!” They sprinted to the G-Wagon, dove inside. Cray fired, but the bulletproofing held. They roared onto the street.

For a mile, only heavy breathing. Sarah sobbed. “He was going to kill us.”

“We’re liabilities now,” Amal said grimly. “You said the shipyard. Is that really where he is?”

“Yes,” Flora said, clutching Gabriel’s birth certificate. “He works the night shift.”

“Cray will track him down within the hour,” Amal said, speeding up.

“Why are we saving him?” Sarah cried.

“There is no money if we’re dead,” Amal snapped. Then, softer, “And Dad was right. I saw the look in Cray’s eyes. Pure evil. I don’t want to be that. I want to be a Vance like Dad. And Dad wanted to protect this kid.”

Flora felt a lump in her throat. “Then drive faster.”

Chapter Six: The Heir Found

They reached the shipyards—a labyrinth of containers and cranes. Flora pointed. “Dock 4.”

Sparks flew from a tanker hull. A lone figure, welding. “Gabriel!” Flora screamed.

The figure stopped, lifted his mask. Flora gasped—Arthur’s eyes, Arthur’s jawline.

Gabriel Santos lowered the scaffold, jumped down. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“You’re in danger,” Flora said. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Who are you people?” Gabriel asked.

“I’m your sister,” Flora said.

Gabriel froze. “My what?”

A shot rang out. Ping—a bullet struck the hull inches from Gabriel’s head. Amal tackled Gabriel behind steel beams.

Cray walked down the dock, calm and methodical. “Hand over the boy, Amal. You can still keep the company.”

Amal looked at Gabriel, then Flora. “No deal,” he yelled.

“Have it your way,” Cray said, raising the gun.

“NO!” Gabriel shouted, unarmed.

Cray squeezed the trigger, but the shot never came. A blinding spotlight flooded the dock. The deafening whup-whup of helicopter rotors drowned out the rain.

“Drop the weapon!” a voice boomed.

Cray looked up, blinded. SWAT teams swarmed in. Federal agents, rifles raised.

A black sedan screeched onto the dock. Mr. Thorne stepped out, flanked by officers.

“It’s over, Cray!” Thorne shouted. “Files are with the FBI. The Sterling Trust is frozen. Your employers are in handcuffs.”

Cray lowered the gun, smiled coldly. “Arthur always was one step ahead.”

Police tackled Cray, handcuffing him. Flora slumped against the steel container, adrenaline spent.

Thorne walked over. “You cut it close, Miss Vance,” he said, a rare sparkle in his eye. “I needed you to find the boy. Arthur knew you were the only one stubborn enough.”

Gabriel looked at Flora. “You’re Arthur Vance’s daughter?”

“Yes,” Flora said, taking his hand. “And you’re his son. You’re our brother.”

Amal stood, wiped mud from his suit. “I’m Amal. Sorry about the tackle.”

Gabriel hesitated, then shook it. “Gabriel.”

Sarah, missing a shoe, muttered, “You better not be as annoying as Amal.” No venom—only relief.

The rain finally stopped.

Epilogue: A New Legacy

Six months later, the boardroom of Vance Global was full—but not hostile. Gabriel sat at the head of the table, uncomfortable in a suit, preferring site visits.

“The motion carries,” Gabriel said. “We’re liquidating the Sterling assets to fund community housing.”

Amal, chief operations officer, nodded. “Good move. The PR alone will triple our stock value.” He’d lost his arrogance, but kept his business brain—finally using it to build, not destroy.

Sarah ran the Vance Foundation, channeling her dramatic energy into fundraising galas that actually helped people.

Flora stood by the window, looking out at the city. She wasn’t on the board; she didn’t want a title. She’d gone back to nursing school, funded by her share of the trust.

Thorne joined her. “Your father would be proud.”

Flora smiled. “He knew we needed to break apart to come back together.”

Thorne handed her an envelope. Inside was a photo—Arthur, her mother, and baby Flora. On the back, Arthur had written, “Family isn’t blood. It’s who you bleed for. Take care of them, Ellie.”

Flora looked at Amal, Gabriel, and Sarah laughing at the table. They weren’t perfect—loud, messy, complicated. But they were family. For the first time in Vance history, they were truly rich.

Flora walked into that will reading a disowned outcast. She walked out the matriarch of a new legacy.

Sometimes, when life strips everything away, it’s only making room for something better.

Arthur Vance’s final lesson wasn’t about money—it was about character. The only way to save his children from greed was to force them to rely on each other to survive.

And so, the Vance legacy was reborn—not in fortune, but in family.