Julian had three children.
Henry, fifty-one, was the eldest.
He had spent most of his adult life assuming he would eventually replace his father.
He dressed like Julian.
Used some of his phrases.
Had joined the company at twenty-eight and risen through departments slowly enough that everyone could pretend nepotism had nothing to do with it.
Henry loved his father.
That was true.
He also spent thirty years competing with him.
That was true too.
Caroline, forty-seven, was the middle child.
She had inherited Julian’s intelligence and none of his patience.
She owned two upscale interior design studios in London and had been financially successful for years, which did not stop her from monitoring every property her father purchased and every amendment he made to the family trust.
Caroline insisted this was because she valued transparency.
Henry said it was because she could smell inheritance from three counties away.
The youngest, Peter, forty-one, lived in Brussels.
He worked in international development, had two children and visited least often.
Peter told himself this meant he cared least about the money.
His siblings disagreed.
They remembered every time he had called Julian for help with school fees.
