I Had No Idea What Was Coming When I Said No to My Son’s Request for $100k

My name is Colleen Prince, and at 68, I thought I had learned all there was to know about wealth and its dangers. I inherited an oil fortune worth $80 million, and if money teaches you anything, it’s that it doesn’t just “talk” — it shouts, lies, and sometimes even kills. I knew money could destroy relationships, but I never imagined the biggest threat to my life would come from my own son, looking me in the eyes and calling me “Mom.”

The Prince estate stretched across 500 acres of valuable Texas land. Our mansion was a proud reminder of three generations of success — tall, elegant, and beautiful. But since my husband, Charles, died five years ago, it had been nothing but quiet and lonely. I was left in charge of an empire I never truly wanted.

It was a normal Tuesday morning in October. I sat in my study, glasses perched on my nose, reviewing quarterly reports. That’s when I heard the low, familiar sound of my son Blake’s BMW pulling into the driveway. At 35, Blake didn’t often visit without a reason. And lately, I had noticed something different in him — the carefree charm he once had was gone, replaced with a desperate edge that made me uneasy.

“Mom,” he said, walking in without knocking, his expensive suit wrinkled and his hair slightly messy. “We need to talk.”

I put my glasses down and looked at him carefully. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hands trembled ever so slightly.

“I’m just going to get to the point,” he said. “I need money. A lot of it.”

I sighed inwardly. Here we go again. Blake’s business ventures always seemed to need my help. “How much?” I asked.

“One hundred thousand,” he replied, his voice quick. “It’s for a tech startup — an amazing new online marketing platform. It’s going to be huge.”

“Who’s your partner?” I pressed.

He looked away for a moment. “You don’t know him. He’s from California, works in tech.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Mom, why does that even matter?” he said, trying to brush it off.

His reaction told me everything. I had worked as a prosecutor for thirty years; I could hear a lie the way some people hear music. Blake was hiding something.

“Blake,” I said firmly, “I’ve supported your dreams over and over, and none of them have worked. Maybe it’s time to try building something on your own.”

His face changed instantly, turning angry. “On my own? With what, Mom? I’m drowning here! Do you know what it’s like to live under the shadow of all this?” He waved his arms at the room around us — the tall shelves, the leather chairs, the expensive wood paneling. “Everyone expects me to succeed because I’m a Prince. How can I do that when you control everything?”

“I need that money, and I need it now,” he continued. “This isn’t a request — it’s a necessity. You’ll be dead soon anyway.”

His words froze my blood. This wasn’t an immature outburst. It was a threat.

“The answer is no, Blake,” I said.

He jumped up, his chair tipping slightly behind him. His eyes were cold, calculating — almost like he was a stranger. “Fine,” he said, his voice sharp. “I’ll figure it out myself.” Then he left, the roar of his BMW fading down the driveway.

I sat alone, unsure exactly what I had just avoided — but knowing deep down, it wasn’t over.

Two days later, Blake came back — and this time, he brought his wife, Skyler. The second they walked in, I knew it wasn’t a casual visit. Skyler was beautiful in a high-maintenance, expensive way. They had been married for three years, but I had never felt at ease around her. She always seemed like she was acting in a play, her smile a little too perfect.

“Colleen, I hope you don’t mind us stopping by,” she said sweetly as she walked into my kitchen, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. “I made this just for you,” she added, offering one cup. “It’s a special blend I found downtown.”

The smell hit me immediately. It wasn’t bad exactly, but it was sharp — bitter, with a faint almond scent that sent a shiver down my spine. Blake stood in the doorway, not looking directly at me.

“How thoughtful,” I said with a polite smile, taking the cup.

As Skyler glanced back at Blake for a moment, I made a fast decision. I swapped our cups. It took less than two seconds, and they were identical.

We sat and talked about meaningless things. Skyler took a sip of the coffee meant for me. A few minutes later, she started to cough. At first, it was just a little throat clearing. But soon it turned into violent coughing fits. Her skin flushed red, then turned pale.

“Something’s wrong,” she rasped. “I can’t breathe.”

Blake rushed to her side. “Skyler! What’s happening?”

“Hospital,” she gasped. “I need a hospital!”

We got her to the ER quickly. The doctors moved fast, putting her on monitors and running tests. Blake told them she’d been fine until thirty minutes earlier.

Three hours later, a doctor came out, her face serious. “We found traces of cyanide in her blood,” she said. “This was deliberate poisoning. We have to inform the police.”

Cyanide. The word hung in the air. Blake looked shocked — but I could see the wheels turning in his head. Before I could say anything, Skyler’s weak voice called out from behind the curtain. “She did it. Colleen poisoned my coffee.”

Detective James Morrison arrived soon after. He took me into a side room and asked me to explain. I told him everything — the strange smell, the switch, my instincts.

“Mrs. Prince,” he asked, “if you thought it was dangerous, why not refuse to drink it?”

“I wasn’t sure,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to accuse her without proof.”

Later, I overheard Blake telling Morrison I was paranoid and had been making nasty comments about “gold diggers.” He was painting me as a jealous, bitter old woman.

The police searched my house. They found a small vial and a piece of paper with Skyler’s name and “dosages” written on it. It looked like my handwriting.

“That’s not mine,” I said. “Someone planted it.”

But Morrison didn’t look convinced. “Mrs. Prince, I’m placing you under arrest for attempted murder.”

The handcuffs clicked shut, and I realized Blake and Skyler had planned everything.

In jail, my lawyer, Marcus, came to see me. “Our investigator found something,” he said. “Skyler Morrison doesn’t exist. Her real name is Victoria Sterling — a criminal with a record in three states.”

We dug deeper. Turns out, she was a con artist and suspected killer. And Blake had learned I’d recently changed my will so he’d inherit nothing. Now it all made sense.

Bail was set at $2 million. When I got home, I decided to fight back. We leaked a story that I had found proof of my innocence and would give it to the police in two days. I knew they’d take the bait.

On the third night, Blake and Victoria broke in. I was sitting in my study, waiting.

“Where’s the evidence?” Victoria asked, holding a syringe.

“There is no evidence,” I said.

She smiled coldly. “Good. Then we can finish this.”

But before she could move, FBI agents burst in from every door. “FBI! Hands up!”

It was over.

Six months later, Victoria — whose real name was Rebecca Martinez — was sentenced to four life terms. Blake got 25 years. My fortune will now go entirely to the Prince Animal Welfare Foundation.

Blake wrote me a letter from prison, full of apologies. I burned it. Some betrayals cut too deep.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.