“But then Windfall is ours, right? If it belongs to Ellie?” Ginny interrupts.
A rage claws at me like poison attacking my blood. Neither of them cares about how Ellie fits into any of this. They only care about how her inheritance affects them. I should be surprised. I’m not. I am, however, plenty angry over it.
“There are a number of special instructions for Felix to follow,” Harding says.
“She can’t live here without her parents!” Malcolm storms back to the whiskey. For a moment, I don’t see him. I see my father standing before me in denial, reaching for the bottle to wash away any doubt he has about the control he holds over the situation. I blink away the memory. Malcolm isn’t him—but for how long will that be true?
“What kind of special instructions?” Ginny asks softly, tears well in her eyes. They spill over, cracking the polished veneer she clings to and revealing what lies beneath the facade of her perfect life. Gone is the trophy wife, the harried mother, the catty sister-in-law—the roles she’s played for years. In their place is a girl I knew once, but she’s no longer the same. I see Ginny MacLaine for the first time in that moment.
“I’m afraid only Mr. Gabriel is privy to that information,” Harding says. “Your father left explicit instructions as to a number of potential scenarios which could change his wishes before Elodie inherits the property on her twenty-fifth birthday.”
“She’s my daughter, I deserve to know about her inheritance.”
Harding doesn’t budge. He’s still working for Angus MacLaine. He’s always taken that job seriously. “All I am able to share with you, according to your father’s instructions, is that Windfall should pass to your daughter on her twenty-fifth birthday along with the remaining stake of the family holdings in MacLaine Media.”
“Twenty-one percent,” Malcolm says with a dull laugh. “More than we got.”
“He hoped it would be more if the financials resolved in the family’s favor before his death,” Harding says. “Twenty-one percent is something.”
“Twenty-one percent of nothing is nothing,” Malcolm seethes. “Is the house really secure until then? Can you tell us that?”
“It’s debatable,” Harding admits. He presses his lips into a thin line. He’s bound by his legal obligations to his client. Judd Harding doesn’t work for the family. He works for my father, even in death. It’s not a simple matter of refusing to tell us more—he can’t do it. He can’t tell us why Elodie got the house or why he divvied up the remaining holdings among us in this way.
This whole time, both Malcolm and I have been cautiously making our beds, knowing we’d have to sleep in them one day. The trouble is we were in the wrong room the whole time. Maybe even the wrong house.
Ginny gets to her feet but stumbles like her legs won’t work. Before she can fall, Felix catches her.
“Let’s get you a cup of tea,” Felix suggests.
Ginny stares at him, accusation etched on her face. Her eyes flash to Malcolm, but his attention is out the window—on the kingdom he’s lost. If he noticed her distress, he doesn’t care. Ginny’s gaze finds the floor and she allows Felix to lead her toward the kitchens.
Is this how things will be between us now? Will we question everything Felix does for us? I watch him guide her away, hand on the small of her back to steady her. She doesn’t deserve his kindness. None of us do. My father might have played us against one another, but there’s a critical error in his calculations. Felix might become the enemy to Malcolm and Ginny but he’ll always have Ellie’s best interests at heart.
Harding follows them with his briefcase in hand. There’s a bounce to his step. He walks like a man who’s just shed fifty pounds of dead weight. In a way, he has. He delivered Angus MacLaine’s final blows. He’s as free from the man as any of us can ever hope to be.
The room empties save for Malcolm and me—Angus MacLaine’s lesser heirs. The ones who had worked for our father’s love and still failed to win it. Maybe that’s the problem. Our true inheritance isn’t property or stocks. It’s our father’s final, unintended lesson. Love isn’t a game. In love, you can’t win or lose. Not when it’s real.
“Did you know about this?” Malcolm asks again. He sounds tired as though he’s ready to collapse at the end of a long race.
“No, I didn’t.” I’m not going to try to prove it. He can believe me if he wants.
“Even in his grave, the man can find a way to fuck us.”
“Yep.” I snort, realizing we’ve found common ground at last.
“I should check on Ginny. She’s probably stress shopping online.” Malcolm starts toward the door.
But there’s something still nagging me. “Malcolm,” I call and he stops at the door. “Harding said you spoke with one of the investors at the funeral. Who was it?”
“I don’t know him,” he says. “He came to me with a proposition, one I need to consider.” He pauses, fading away for a moment as if lost in his thoughts before he zeroes in on me. “There might be other interested parties though.”
“You’ll tell me when you know more?”
“Of course.” But he wears a politician’s smile—the one passed down from father to son. He’s lying. The question is: why?
9
Sterling
Twelve and South rises like a shard of glass in the heart of Nashville. Outside, the morning sun dances off the luxury high-rise over two blocks of restaurants and shops. Farther east, a string of famous bars boasts the best music in town. Inside, the views from the twenty-fifth floor are even more impressive. Unbroken windows wrap the entire exterior of the building’s penthouse apartment. It feels like walking on a cloud—if a cloud had marble floors and a fireplace.
“There’s not much privacy,” the real estate agent titters. Even in her Burberry scarf with Gucci hanging
