“And if I fight you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “If I take this to court?”

“Then I will tie up the Whitmore trust in litigation for the next ten years,” Adrian said. “Every single asset will be frozen in probate and custody disputes.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the quiet room.

“You don’t have the money to fight me for ten years, Vivian,” he continued. “Your attorney will want her retainer paid, and you will have nothing left.”

“You are her father,” I said, tears of anger stinging my eyes. “How can you do this to your own daughter?”

“I am protecting her from a mother who wants to use her as a meal ticket,” he said. “Sign the waiver, take the stipend, and you keep your quiet life. Refuse, and I will dismantle you.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen, the silence in the room suddenly feeling incredibly heavy.

“He’s bluffing about the ten years,” I said, looking up at Grace, desperate for reassurance. “He can’t freeze the trust for that long.”