A.N.: Title reference? Comment on it ( this one is easy!)
Xander left me to explore my wing. My wing. I felt ridiculous even thinking about the words. In my mansion. The first four doors led to suites, each of them sized to make a king bed look tiny. The closets could have doubled as bedrooms. And the bathrooms! Showers with built-in seats and a minimum of three different showerheads apiece. Gargantuan bathtubs that came with control panels. Televisions inlaid in every mirror. Dazed, I made my way to the fifth and final door on my hall. Not a bedroom, I realized when I opened it. An office.
Enormous leather chairs—six of them—sat in a horseshoe shape, facing a balcony. Glass display shelves lined the walls. Evenly spaced on the shelves were items that looked like they belonged in a museum—geodes, antique weaponry, statues of onyx and stone.
Opposite the balcony, at the back of the room, was a desk. As I got closer, I saw a large bronze compass built into its surface. I trailed my fingers over the compass. It turned—northwest—and a compartment in the desk popped open.This wing was where Tobias Hawthorne spent his last few months, I thought. Suddenly, I didn't just want to look in the open compartment—I wanted to rifle through every drawer in Tobias Hawthorne's desk. There had to be something, somewhere, that could tell me what he was thinking—why I was here, why he'd pushed his family aside for me. Had I done something to impress him? Did he see something in me? Or Mom? I got a closer look at the opened compartment. Inside, there were deep grooves, carved in the shape of the letter T. I ran my fingers across the grooves. Nothing happened. I tested the rest of the drawers. Locked.
Behind the desk, there were shelves filled with plaques and trophies. I walked towards them. The first plaque had the words United States of America engraved on a gold background; underneath them, there was a seal. It took a little more reading of the smaller print for me to realize that it was a patent—and not one issued to Tobias Hawthorne.
This patent was held by Xander. There were at least a half dozen other patents on the wall, several world records, and trophies in every shape imaginable. A bronze bull rider. Asurfboard. A sword. There were medals. Multiple black belts. Championship cups—some of them national championships—for everything from motocross to swimming to pinball. There was a series of five framed comic books—superheroes I recognized, the kind they made movies about—authored by the five Hawthorne grandchildren. A coffee table book of photographs bore Grayson's name on the spine.This wasn't just a display. It was practically a shrine—Tobias Hawthorne's ode to his five extraordinary grandchildren.
This made no sense. It didn't make sense that any five people—four of them teenagers—could have achieved this much, and it definitely didn't make sense that the man who'd kept this display in his office had decided that none of them deserved to inherit his fortune.
Even if you thought that you'd manipulated our grandfather into this, I could hear Xander saying, I guarantee that he'd be the one manipulating you.
"Avery?"The second I heard my name, I stepped back from the trophies. Hastily, I closed the compartment I'd released on the desk.
"In here," I called back.
Libby appeared in the doorway. "This is unreal," she said. "This entire place is unreal."
"That's one word for it." I tried to focus on the marvel that was Hawthorne House and not on my sister's black eye, but I failed. If possible, the bruising looked worse now.
Libby wrapped her arms around her torso. "I'm fine," she said when she noticed my stare. "It doesn't even hurt that much."
"Please tell me you're done with him." The words escaped before I could stop them. Libby needed support right now—not judgment. But I couldn't help thinking that Drake had been her ex before.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Libby said. "I chose you." I wanted her to choose herself, and I said as much. Libby let her hair fall into her face and turned toward the balcony.
She was silent for a full minute before she spoke again."My mom used to hit me. Only when she was really stressed, you know? She was a single mom, and things were hard. I could understand that. I tried to make everything easier." I could picture her as a kid, getting hit and trying to make it up to the person who hit her.
"Libby..."
"Drake loved me, Avery. I know he did, and I tried so hard to understand..." She was hugging herself harder now. The black polish on her nails looked fresh.Perfect. "But you were right." My heart broke a little.
"I didn't want to be." Libby stood there for a few more seconds, then walked over to the balcony and tested the door. I followed, and the two of us stepped out into the night air.
Down below, there was a swimming pool. It must have been heated, because someone was swimming laps. Grayson. My body recognized him before my mind did. His arms beat against the water in a brutally efficient butterfly stroke. And his back muscles...
"I have to tell you something," Libby said beside me.That let me tear my eyes away from the pool—and the swimmer.
"About Drake?" I asked.
"No. I heard something." Libby swallowed. "When Oren introduced me to my security detail, I overheard Zara's husband talking. They're running a test—a DNA test. On you."
I had no idea where Zara and her husband had gotten a sample of my DNA, but I wasn't entirely surprised. I'd thought it myself: The simplest explanation for including a total stranger in your will was that she wasn't a total stranger. The simplest explanation was that I was a Hawthorne. I had no business watching Grayson at all.
"If Tobias Hawthorne was your father," Libby managed, "then our dad—my dad—isn't. And if we don't share a dad, and we barely even saw each other growing up—"
"Don't you dare say we're not sisters," I told her.
"Would you still want me here?" Libby asked me, her fingers rubbing at her choker. "If we're not—"
"I want you here," I promised. "No matter what."
I wasn't sure how long I'd been lying on what I assumed were Egyptian cotton sheets when I heard it. A voice.
"Pull the candlestick." I was on my feet in an instant, whirling to put my back to the wall. On instinct, I grabbed the keys I'd left on the nightstand, in case I needed a weapon. My eyes scanned the room for the person who'd spoken, and came up empty. "Pull the candlestick on the fireplace, Heiress. Unless you want me stuck back here?"
Annoyance replaced my initial fight-or-flight response. I narrowed my eyes at the stone fireplace at the back of my room. Sure enough, there was a candelabra on the mantel.
"Pretty sure this qualifies as stalking," I told the fireplace—or, more accurately, the boy on the other side of it. Still, I couldn't not pull the candlestick. Who could resist something like that? I wrapped my hand around the base of the candelabra. I was met with resistance, and another suggestion came from behind the fireplace.
"Don't just pull forward. Angle it down."
I did as I was instructed. The candelabra rotated, and then I heard a click, and the back of the fireplace separated from its floor, just by an inch. A moment later, I saw fingertips in the gap, and I watched as the back of the fireplace was lifted up and disappeared behind the mantel. Now at the back of the fireplace there was an opening. Jameson Hawthorne stepped through. He straightened, then returned the candle to its upright position, and the entry he'd just used was slowly covered once more.
"Secret passage," he explained unnecessarily. "The house is full of them."
"Am I supposed to find that comforting?" I asked him. "Or terrifying?"
"You tell me, Mystery Girl. Are you comforted or terrified?" He let me sit with that for a moment. "Or is it possible that you're intrigued?"
The first time I'd met Jameson Hawthorne, he was drunk. This time, I didn't smell alcohol on his breath, but I wondered how much he'd slept since the reading of the will. His hair was behaving itself, but there was something wild in his glinting green eyes."
You're not asking about the keys." Jameson offered me a crooked little smile. "I expected you to ask about the keys."
I held them up. "This was your doing." Not a question—and he didn't treat it like one.
"It's a little bit of a family tradition."
"I'm not family." He tilted his head to one side.
"Do you believe that?"
I thought about Tobias Hawthorne—about the DNA test that Zara's husband was already running. "I don't know."
"It would be a shame," Jameson commented, "if we were related." He spared another smile for me, slow and sharp-edged. "Don't you think?"
What was it with me and Hawthorne boys? Stop thinking about his smile. Stop looking at his lips. Just—stop.
"I think that you already have more family than you can deal with." I crossed my arms. "I also think you're a lot less smooth than you think you are. You want something." I'd always been good at math. I'd always been logical. He was here, in my room, flirting for a reason. "Everyone is going to want something from you soon, Heiress." Jameson smiled. "The question is: How many of us want something you're willing to give?"
Even just the sound of his voice, the way he phrased things—I could feel myself wanting to lean toward him. This was ridiculous.
"Stop calling me Heiress," I shot back. "And if you turn answering my question into some kind of riddle, I'm calling security."
"That's the thing, Mystery Girl. I don't think I'm turning anything into a riddle. I don't think I have to. You are a riddle, a puzzle, a game—my grandfather's last."
He was looking at me so intently now, I didn't dare look away.
"Why do you think this house has so many secret passages? Why are there so many keys that don't work in any of the locks? Every desk my grandfather ever bought has secret compartments. There's an organ in the theater, and if you play a specific sequence of notes, it unlocks a hidden drawer. Every Saturday morning, from the time I was a kid until the night my grandfather died, he sat my siblings and me down and gave us a riddle, a puzzle, an impossible challenge—something to solve. And then he died. And then..." Jameson took a step toward me. "There was you."
Me.
"Grayson thinks you're some master manipulator. My aunt is convinced you must have Hawthorne blood. But I think you're the old man's final riddle—one last puzzle to be solved."
He took another step, bringing the two of us that much closer.
"He chose you for a reason, Avery. You're special, and I think he wanted us—wanted me—to figure out why."
"I'm not a puzzle." I could feel my heart beating in my neck. He was close enough now to see my pulse.
"Sure you are," Jameson replied. "We all are. Don't tell me that some part of you hasn't been trying to figure us out. Grayson. Trinity. Me. Maybe even Xander."
"Is this all just a game to you?" I put my hand out to stop him from advancing farther. He took one last step, forcing my palm to his chest.
"Everything's a game, Avery Grambs. The only thing we get to decide in this life is if we play to win." He reached up to brush the hair from my face, and I jerked back.
"Get out," I said lowly. "Use the normal door this time." My entire life, no one had touched me as gently as he had a moment before.
"You're angry," Jameson said.
"I told you—if you want something, ask. Don't come in here talking about how I'm special. Don't touch my face."
"You are special." Jameson kept his hands to himself, but the heady expression in his eyes never shifted. "And what I want is to figure out why. Why you, Avery?" He took a step back, giving me space. "Don't tell me you don't want to know, too."
I did. Of course I did.
"I'm going to leave this here." Jameson held up an envelope. He laid it carefully on the mantel. "Read it, and then tell me this isn't a game to be won. Tell me this isn't a riddle."
Jameson reached for the candelabra, and as the fireplace passage opened once more, he offered a targeted, parting shot.
"He left you the fortune, Avery, and all he left us is you."
Eventually, I moved to take the envelope Jameson had left on the mantel, even though everything in me rebelled against what he had said. I wasn't a puzzle. I was just a girl. I turned the envelope over and saw Jameson's name scrawled across the front. This is his letter, I realized. The one he was given at the reading of the will. I still had no idea what to make of my own letter, no idea what Tobias Hawthorne was apologizing for. Maybe Jameson's letter would clarify something. I opened it and read. The message was longer than mine—and made even less sense.
Jameson,
Better the devil you know than the one you don't—or is it? Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. All that glitters is not gold. Nothing is certain but death and taxes. There but for the grace of God I go. Don't judge.
—Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne
By the next morning, I'd memorized Jameson's letter. It sounded like it had been written by someone who hadn't slept in days—manic, rattling off one platitude after another. But the longer the words marinated in the back of my brain, the more I began to consider the possibility that Jameson might be right.
There's something there, in the letters. In Jameson's. In mine. An answer—or at least a clue.
Rolling out of my massive bed, I went to unplug my phones, plural, from their chargers and discovered that my old phone had powered down. With some hefty pushes on the power button and a little bit of luck, I managed to cajole it back on. I didn't know how I could even begin to explain the past twenty-four hours to Max, but I needed to talk to someone.
I needed a reality check.
What I got was more than a hundred missed calls and texts. Suddenly, the reason Alisa had given me a new phone was clear. People I hadn't spoken to in years were messaging me. People who had spent their lives ignoring me clamored for my attention. Coworkers. Classmates. Even teachers. I had no idea how half of them had gotten my number. I grabbed my new phone, went online, and discovered that my email and social media accounts were even worse.
I had thousands of messages—most of them from strangers.
To some people,you'll be Cinderella. To others, Marie Antoinette.
My stomach muscles tightened. I set both phones down and stood up, my hand going over my mouth. I should have seen this coming. It shouldn't have been a shock to my system at all. But I wasn't ready.How could a person be ready for this?
"Avery?" A voice called into my room—female and not Libby.
"Alisa?" I double-checked before opening my bedroom door.
"You missed breakfast," came the reply. Brisk, businesslike—definitely Alisa.I opened the door.
"Mrs. Laughlin wasn't sure what you like, so she made a bit of everything," Alisa told me.
A woman I didn't recognize—early twenties, maybe—followed her into the room carrying a tray. She deposited it on my nightstand, cut a narrow-eyed glance my way, then left without a word.
"I thought the staff only came in as needed," I said, turning to Alisa once the door was closed. Alisa blew out a long breath.
"The staff," she said, "is very, very loyal and extremely concerned right now. That"—Alisa nodded to the door—"was one of the newer hires. She's one of Nash's."
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean, she's one of Nash's?"
Alisa's composure never faltered. "Nash is a bit of a nomad. He leaves. He wanders. He finds some hole-in-the-wall place to bartend for a while, and then,
like a moth to the flame, he comes back—usually with one or two hopeless souls in tow. As I'm sure you can imagine, there's plenty of work to be had at Hawthorne House, and Mr. Hawthorne had a habit of putting Nash's lost souls to work."
"And the girl who was just in here?" I asked."She's been here about a year." Alisa's tone gave nothing away. "She'd die for Nash. Most of them would."
"Are she and Nash..." I wasn't sure how to phrase this. "Involved?"
"No!" Alisa said sharply. She took a deep breath and continued. "Nash would never let anything happen with someone he had any kind of power over. He has his flaws—a savior complex among them—but he's not like that."
I couldn't take the elephant in the room any longer, so I dragged it into the light. "He's your ex."
Alisa's chin rose. "We were engaged for a time," she allowed. "We were young. There were issues. But I assure you, I have no conflict of interest when it comes to your representation."
Engaged? I had to actively try to keep my jaw from dropping. My lawyer had planned to marry a Hawthorne, and she hadn't thought that merited a mention?
"If you'd prefer," Alisa said stiffly, "I can arrange for someone else from the firm to work as your liaison."
I forced myself to stop gawking at her and tried to process the situation. Alisa had been nothing but professional and seemed almost frighteningly good at her job. Plus, given the whole broken engagement thing, she had a reason not to be loyal to the Hawthornes.
"It's okay," I said. "I don't need a new liaison."
That got a very small smile out of her. "I've taken the liberty of enrolling you at Heights Country Day."
Alisa moved to the next item on her to-do list with merciless efficiency.
"It's the school that Xander and Jameson attend. Grayson graduated last year. I'd hoped to have you enrolled and at least partially acclimated before news of your inheritance broke in the press, but we'll deal with the hand we've been dealt." She gave me a look. "You're the Hawthorne heiress, and you're not a Hawthorne. That's going to draw attention, even at a place like Country Day, where you will be far from the only one with means."
Means, I thought. How many ways did rich people have of not saying the word rich?
"I'm pretty sure I can handle a bunch of prep school kids," I said, even though I wasn't sure of that. At all. Alisa caught sight of my phones. She squatted down and plucked my old phone from the ground.
"I'll dispose of this for you." She didn't even have to look at the screen to realize what had happened. What was still happening, if the constant, muted buzzing of the phone was any indication.
"Wait," I told her. I grabbed the phone, ignored the messages, and went for Max's number. I transferred it to my new phone.
"I suggest you strictly regulate who has access to your new number," Alisa told me. "This isn't going to die down anytime soon."
"This," I repeated. The media attention. Strangers sending me messages. People who'd never cared about me deciding we were best friends.
"The students at Country Day will have a bit more discretion," Alisa told me,"but you need to be prepared. As awful as it sounds, money is power, and power is magnetic. You're not the person you were two days ago."
I wanted to argue that point, but instead, my mind cycled back to Tobias Hawthorne's letter to Jameson, his words echoing in my mind. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
"Avery. Avery, are you ready yet?" Trinity stepped into my room, Chanel "school bag" casually hung over her shoulder. Like yesterday, her uniform looked right on her. Instead of the burgundy tie I was given, she had swapped it for a Prada tie with three small pins on it. The first one was her initials, TKH, pinned underneath that was a small ballerina, the last pin was a tiny knife.
Dior tights again, which slipped into those "YSL" heels, and her skirt was belted with a black-and-gold belt.
I glanced down at the navy blue crest on the left breast of my burgundy blazer, with Latin words I couldn't read. "Ready as I'll ever be."
A.N.: Lowkey cringy ending but we ignore that ;)
New description, what do you guys think?
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<3!