New York Billionaires Series

If there’s a will, there’s a way.

And there’s most certainly a will. It’s in the hands of attorney Robert Tirsch, sitting by my grandfather’s oak desk. He ignores the pack of vultures watching him and keeps his eyes on the will. Searching for a way out of this, perhaps.

I lean against the bookshelves, breathing in the familiar scent of leather-bound books and dust. It didn’t matter how often the maids tried to clean this room. Grandfather always drove them out.

My aunt shifts in her chair. “I think we’d all appreciate if we could get this done soon. Today, preferably.”

Mr. Tirsch clears his throat. Looks from the document in his hand to her. To my cousins crammed onto the old Chesterfield sofa. And then, finally, his gaze comes to rest on me.

That’s when I know.

Nothing as trivial as the grave will stop Grandfather from micro-managing St. Clair affairs.

Mr. Tirsch presses a handkerchief to his forehead. “Let’s begin, then. Thank you all for gathering here today for the reading of the last will and testament of Richard St. Clair. As you’re all aware, this is not how we usually inform beneficiaries of the contents of a will. But the testator left specific instructions, and his lawyers have decided to honor those wishes.”

He clears his throat, eyes refocusing on the will in front of him. Must be easier to face than the room’s eager anticipation. “Richard St. Clair leaves half of his assets, excluding real estate, to his daughter, Mrs. Charlotte Reece, as quantified in liquid cash, stocks and bonds.”

My aunt draws a breath. It echoes in the crammed office. “Did you say excluding real estate?”

Mr. Tirsch blots his forehead again. “Yes.”

Dignified, fifty-eight-year-old Charlotte Reece doesn’t turn around to glare at me, but I know she wants to. There are only two main beneficiaries to this will. Her, and me. My grandfather only had two children. With my parents gone, I inherit my father’s lot.

“The other half of his assets, including real estate, will be left to the child of Richard St. Clair’s late son, Victor St. Clair.”

So, he gave me the house.

The old bastard gave me this place, the house that was my prison and solace for years. Maybe I can finally get someone to dust this room.

My aunt rises from her seat, but a nervous head shake from Mr. Tirsch stops her in her tracks. “There is, however, a requirement placed upon Mr. St. Clair. It’s most unusual.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What is it?”

Mr. Tirsch’s eyes lock with mine. He shrinks, fidgeting with the paper in his hand. “The estate will be held in a trust by the bank until Victor St. Clair is married, after which he will formally inherit the house. If he has not changed his civil status within two years, the trust will revert to Mrs. Charlotte Reece. As I said… most unusual.”

“You’re not serious,” my aunt says. “Is that it? No explanation? Nothing?”

One of my cousins shoots me an incredulous look. I keep my eyes locked on the attorney and my face blank.

Grandfather is requiring me to marry to get the house.

Did he really think it would have that strong of a hold on me?

“There’s a line included in the will, yes. It was Richard St. Clair’s wish that his grandson Victor would carry on the family name.” Tirsch gives me a look that’s half-fear, half-apology. Perhaps I should have been nicer to him on the phone when he called about this meeting.

Carry on the family name. Marry.

For a few seconds, no one in the office makes a sound.

Then I start laughing. It’s the first time in forever I’ve felt this lightheaded. Of course my grandfather is requiring this of me. He’s not done making judgements about me and my life or using me as a pawn. He’s thrown down the gauntlet, gambling that he knew just what this house means to me.

Marry to keep it. Don’t and watch it go.

And I have two years to do it.

“The usual, for your boss?”

“Yes. Go light on the mayo this time, please.”

“He didn’t like it last time?” Ryan asks.

I give him an apologetic shrug. “For what it’s worth, I thought it tasted amazing.”

Ryan chuckles, hands a blur behind the counter. Smoked salmon, rocket, capers, cream cheese and a small amount of mayo on gluten-free bread. We chat the whole way through, about the latest addition to his family. A pug named Lucy.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“My wife loves the Beatles,” he says with a grin. “So Lucy it was.”

“Does she have a diamond-encrusted collar?”

“Do you think I’d still be making sandwiches if she did?”

I laugh. “You have a talent… so yes!”

“Oh, you flatter me.” He hands me the finished sandwich, wrapped in plastic. “Here you go. I hope he likes it.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” I wave him a cheery goodbye, the footlong made to Victor St. Clair’s exact specifications tucked under my arm. I stop by the corner shop and get him his coffee. Dark roast, Colombian beans, no sugar, no cream.

I make it back to Exciteur Consulting with four minutes to spare before Mr. St. Clair’s meeting ends.

Stacey, the new security guard working the lobby, is on duty by the electronic gates. Awesome.

I wave at her. “Hi!”

She smiles and motions me ahead of the line of employees waiting to pass through the electronic gates.

“Thank you. You’re the best.”

She winks. “Only for the top floor.”

The elevator I hurry into is only half-full. The chatter dies down as soon as I hit the button for the thirty-fourth.

Yes , I think. I work for executive.

The corridor on the thirty-fourth is quiet when I arrive, my heels against the stone floor the only sound as I walk past executive offices. Two are empty conference rooms. One is the CFO’s office, the other the COO’s. Two are in-house attorneys.

And then, at the very end of the corridor, is the atrium I call my home. Mason is at his desk. His fingers still on the keyboard as he sees me. “They’re not back yet.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Awesome, thank you.”