The woman who inherited three husbands

The pounding behind Salma Wellington’s from her hangover made her groan, she rolled out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush charcoal carpet of her suite. Her eyelids felt heavy, swollen from a night spent draining her father’s expensive crystal decanters, chasing a dreamless sleep that never came. Today was going to be hell. Confirming the sudden passing of Arthur Wellington to the company was going to be the least of her problems.

By noon, she had to personally contact his business partners who were supposed to touch down today for a major merger meeting. Rescheduling was the first priority, but keeping the stock market from panicking was the real battle. She had exactly one week to collect all her father’s presentations, lock down the legal tenders, and make sure the company kept running like nothing had happened.

Her father's death still didn't feel real to her because he had been perfectly fine just forty-eight hours ago. He had toured three separate production sites, dominated four back-to-back meetings, and walked around with the kind of energy that made people think he would live forever. Anyone who saw him that afternoon would never have guessed he’d be dead at exactly nine o’clock that same evening.

According to his maid, he came back at eight, ate a light dinner in silence, and went straight to bed. When he failed to wake up at five in the morning for his usual espresso, the maid didn't want to disturb him. By seven, she got worried and went up to his room to shake him awake, only to find his skin completely cold. The family doctor confirmed it was a massive heart attack, hitting him barely five minutes after he climbed into bed.

Walking down the grand stairs of her childhood home a full day after he died, Salma couldn't miss how quiet the house was. The massive dining table sat completely empty, the only sound was the loud, annoying clanging of the antique grandfather clock in the living room. Near the base of the stairs, the maid stepped out.

"Good morning, Ms Salma. Do you want some breakfast?"

Salma gave a tight nod. "Just black coffee and some toast. Bring it to the morning room." She walked into the lounge, her eyes glued to the television screen. A news anchor was breaking the story of Arthur Wellington's death for what felt like the hundredth time. Since the news broke, her phone hadn't stopped flashing, she had dozens of missed calls from distant relatives and her father’s numerous wives. None of those women had ever given him a biological child, which made Salma the only actual kid Arthur Wellington Bush ever had.

As the maid set down the silver tray with her sparse meal, her phone buzzed again. It was a reminder from her assistant: "The family meeting starts in the grand parlor at 10:00 AM". Salma looked up at the wall clock. It read 9:00 AM, a cold wave of panic hit her. She had overslept from all the alcohol last night. She rushed through her toast, swallowed a gulp of hot coffee, and grabbed her phone to text her assistant: "Cancel all my meetings for the rest of the day. I’m not up for talking to anyone."

Her relationship with her father had never been great, but she still felt the heavy weight of his death. Arthur had always been obsessed with women, he separated from Salma's mother when Salma was only ten years old. Her mother had spent years trashing him to the media, picking up young toyboys and making headlines that made her father clench his teeth so hard they nearly cracked.

She had also dragged him through court for years for a proper divorce and also for more spousal upkeep. After the separation, her father turned marriage into a business strategy. He married strictly for connections, fame, and more money, he had a total of eight wives in his lifetime. At sixty-five, he still looked like a forty-five-year-old man, which made his sudden death feel incredibly weird. Salma sighs as she stars at the screen one more time, there will be a lot of drama this morning and she knows it, she close her eyes and mentally brace herself for the impact.