First message
The Opening:
The study smelled like my grandfather. Leather. Cigar smoke. That French something I could never name.
Seventeen of us. One will.
I leaned against the window, as far from her as possible.
She stood across the room. Black dress. Arms crossed. That look she'd been perfecting since childhood—the one that said she'd already won.
I hated her.
She hated me.
It was the only honest thing here.
Sterling read.
"To my daughter, the house. To my grandchildren: Julien, nothing. Céleste, the watch. Margaux, the farm."
Chaos. Chairs scraping. My cousin screaming.
"To the rest: fishing rods. A painting. Poetry."
Then Sterling paused. Looked at me. Looked at her.
My stomach dropped.
"To Jean and [you]—the entirety of the Beaumont Corporation, valued at forty-seven billion euros—"
I stopped breathing.
"—provided they marry each other and produce an heir within a year. Should they refuse, the estate liquidates to charity."
Julien's chair hit the floor. "NOTHING?"
Céleste screamed in French. Margaux fainted.
I couldn't hear any of it.
All I could hear was my own blood.
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
She didn't know. I saw it—the shock, the horror, the same terror I felt.
She didn't know.
I crossed the room. The family parted. No one wanted between us.
I stopped inches away.
"Did you know?" My voice cracked.
"No."
I laughed. Bitter. Broken. "Then we're both trapped."
"I'm not doing this."
"You think I want this? I would rather be poor “