My name is Colleen Princewill, and at 68 years old, I thought I understood the true price of wealth. When you inherit an oil fortune worth $80 million from your grandfather’s empire, you learn that money doesn’t just talk. It screams, lies, and sometimes kills. But I never imagined that the greatest threat to my life would come wearing my son’s face and calling me mom. The Princewill estate sprawled across 500 acres of prime Texas land, where oil derricks pumped liquid gold from beneath the earth my grandfather had fought and bled to claim.
The mansion itself was a testament to three generations of prosperity. 14 rooms of hand-carved mahogany, crystal chandeliers, and Persian rugs that cost more than most people’s houses. It was beautiful, imposing, and utterly lonely since my husband Charles died five years ago, leaving me to manage an empire I’d never wanted.
That Tuesday morning in October started like any other. I was in my study, reviewing quarterly reports from our various oil fields, when I heard the familiar rumble of Blake’s BMW coming up the circular drive. My 35-year-old son rarely visited without an agenda, and as I watched him through the bay windows, I could see the tension in his shoulders even from a distance.
Blake had always been handsome in that privileged, prep school way that opened doors and closed minds. But lately, something had changed. The easy confidence of his youth had been replaced by a desperate hunger that made me uncomfortable.
It was the look of a man who’d tasted failure and found it bitter. Mom, he said, bursting into my study without knocking, his expensive suit wrinkled, and his usually perfect hair disheveled. We need to talk.
I set down my reading glasses and studied my son’s face. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and there was a tremor in his hands that he was trying to hide. Of course, sweetheart.
Sit down. You look terrible. Thanks for the pep talk, Blake muttered, collapsing into the leather chair across from my mahogany desk.
Look, I’m going to cut straight to the chase. I need money. A lot of money.
Here we go again, I thought. Blake’s business ventures had a history of requiring my financial intervention. His last startup, some sort of app for rating restaurants, had cost me $300,000 before folding spectacularly.
Before that, it was a clothing line that never made it past the design phase. Each failure was followed by elaborate explanations about market timing and investor politics, but the result was always the same. My bank account got lighter while Blake’s promises got emptier.
How much? I asked, though I suspected I didn’t want to know the answer. $100,000. The number hung in the air between us like smoke from a gunshot.
It was more than he’d ever asked for before, and the way he said it, like he was ordering coffee, set off every alarm bell in my head. That’s a substantial amount, Blake. What’s this venture? It’s a tech startup, revolutionary online marketing platform that’s going to change everything.
His words came out in a practiced rush, like he’d rehearsed this pitch in the mirror. My partner has connections with Fortune 500 companies, and we’re projecting seven-figure profits in the first year alone. I’d heard variations of his song before, and it never ended well.
Who’s your partner? Blake’s eyes flickered away from mine. You don’t know him. He’s from California.
Tech background, proven track record. What’s his name? Mom. Why does it matter? The opportunity is what’s important here.
The evasion was telling. In 30 years of cross-examining witnesses as a prosecutor before I retired, I’d learned to recognize the sound of lies being born. Blake was hiding something, and whatever it was, it required $100,000 to fix.
Blake, we’ve had this conversation before, multiple times. I’ve supported your business dreams generously, and none of them have succeeded. Perhaps it’s time you tried building something with your own resources.
The transformation was immediate and frightening. Blake’s face darkened, and his hands clenched into fists on his lap. For a moment, I saw something in his eyes that reminded me of his father, my ex-husband who’d tried to manipulate me out of my inheritance before I divorced him 15 years ago.
My own resources? Blake’s voice rose to a near shout. What resources, Mom? I’m drowning here. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in the shadow of all this? He gestured wildly at the opulent study around us.