Billionaire’s Son Abuses Janitor – She’s His Dead Mother’s Best Friend
A billionaire’s son threw coffee at his elderly janitor and called her worthless… But she was his dead mother’s best friend, holding his real inheritance.
Justin Rothschild hurled his crystal mug across the marble foyer. Coffee splattered against the wall, dripping onto the Persian rug.
“Helen! Get your ancient ass over here!”
The 71-year-old woman shuffled from the kitchen, arthritis slowing her steps. Her gray hair was pulled back in a worn bandana, cleaning supplies clutched in weathered hands.
“Clean this mess. And this time, don’t leave streaks on my mirror like yesterday.”
Helen knelt slowly, her knees creaking. “Of course, Mr. Justin.”
“You’re pathetic. Seventy years old and still scrubbing floors.” Justin sneered, adjusting his $3,000 suit. “Maybe it’s time we put you out to pasture.”
Helen’s jaw tightened, but she continued wiping. “I’ll be more careful.”
“You better be. Dead weight like you should be grateful I keep you around.”
The next morning, Helen sat in the mahogany conference room of Whitmore & Associates. But instead of her cleaning uniform, she wore a tailored Chanel suit, her silver hair styled elegantly.
Justin burst through the doors twenty minutes late. “What’s this about? And why is the help—” He stopped mid-sentence, staring at Helen.
“Please sit, Mr. Rothschild.” Attorney Margaret Whitmore gestured to the chair across from Helen. “We’re here regarding your mother’s estate.”
“My mother’s been dead two years. I inherited everything.”
Helen opened her leather briefcase, removing a thick folder. “Not everything, Justin.”
“What the hell is this? Helen, what are you doing here dressed like—”
“Like your equal?” Helen’s voice was steady, authoritative. “I was Catherine’s best friend for fifty years. She asked me to watch over you after her death.”
Margaret cleared her throat. “Mrs. Helen Morrison was your mother’s maid of honor, Justin. She’s also a retired federal judge and executor of your mother’s true will.”
Justin’s face went white. “That’s impossible.”
Helen slid a document across the table. “Your mother left two wills. The public one you know about. This pr
“You’re lying!”
Helen opened her folder, revealing photographs, video stills, and handwritten journals. “Fourteen months of documentation. Hidden cameras throughout the house. Every cruel word, every degrading act.”
She pressed play on a tablet. Justin’s voice filled the room: “You’re pathetic… dead weight… put you out to pasture.”
“Mom would never—”
“She knew exactly who you were, Justin.” Helen’s eyes were cold steel. “She told me, ‘If my son has become the monster I fear, don’t let him destroy what we built with cruelty.'”
Margaret reviewed the documents. “Everything appears to be in order. The two-year deadline was yesterday.”
“This is fraud! I’ll fight this!”
Helen stood, her true dignity finally revealed. “With what money? The estate is worth $340 million. You get the minimum inheritance—$50,000 and the truth about your mother’s love.”
Justin slumped in his chair, the weight of realization crushing him.
“She gave you two years to prove you had her heart,” Helen continued. “Instead, you proved you had your father’s cruelty.”
Margaret signed the transfer documents. “The Catherine Rothschild Foundation for Workers’ Rights will receive the full estate.”
Helen walked to the door, then paused. “Your mother’s last words were ‘I hope I’m wrong about Justin.’ Today, I’ll tell her spirit that justice was served.”
Six months later, Justin worked as a junior account manager, his trust fund gone, his mansion sold. Helen returned to her real life as a philanthropist, but sometimes drove past his small apartment, knowing Catherine would have approved of the lesson finally learned.
