Chapter 4: Cold Hunters

"A funeral and a will reading on the same day?!"

Susan's voice pitched high, more amused than shocked.

"The Hunters are cold."

"I see where you get it from," she teased.

"You know I'm not one of them." Scott's jaw tightened.

"Not yet," Susan corrected. "But you were born one. Becca raised you to think you weren't, but—"

"To keep me safe."

The words came out sharper than he intended.

Growing up, Becca had drilled it into him: Never look for them. They'll destroy you.

For years, he'd listened. Built his own empire, kept his distance from Hunter Autos.

They'd acted like he didn't exist.

Until Hilda contacted him.

"You want this," Susan said, her voice softening. "It's okay to admit it."

"Why would I want this? I already have everything."

"Everything except the truth." She paused. "Admit it—since you got that letter, your heart's been in LA."

The words hit home.

Scott shifted, deflecting thoughts of his uncertain past.

"How was Blue Birds?" Susan asked, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"It sucked. I had to make my own fun."

His thoughts drifted to Emily—the beautiful woman who'd kissed him and disappeared. The one who worked in his newly acquired building.

At least he knew where to find her.

"Sorry, your highness. It's the only bar I know in LA." Susan laughed. "Ungrateful brat."

"Now stop stalling. Go get ready or you'll be late."

Scott grunted. "You know me too well. Talk later, Susie."

He hung up.

Scott opened his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope with gold-edged paper, the initials embossed in what looked like gold ink: H&H H.

"Hilda and Hector Hunter," he murmured. "What games are you playing?"

He returned the letter to the drawer and stood before the mirror, knotting his tie.

Going to a relative's funeral. Relatives who didn't know I existed.

Six months ago, a woman claiming to be his grandmother had contacted him. Hilda.

When they'd met, he'd felt something he'd never admitted he was yearning for.

Home. History. Identity.

The next time he heard from her, she was dead. 

His phone chimed.

[Funeral in one hour. Will reading in two hours.]

Followed by addresses.

The text was from Simon Sidwell, the family lawyer—the same man who'd delivered Hilda's letter containing his invitation to compete for the Hunter inheritance.

"It's time, sir." Gerry, his bodyguard, stood in the doorway.

Scott adjusted his black suit jacket and followed him to the car.

At the funeral, Scott spotted at least a hundred people—cameras and paparazzi swarming the perimeter like vultures.

Unease coiled in his chest.

"Park at a distance," Scott said through the partition.

This wasn't the time to introduce himself as the long-lost son.

The ceremony lasted about an hour.

When everyone had dispersed, Scott stepped out with the flowers he'd brought and approached the headstone.

He placed them at the base, resting his hand on the fresh soil.

"I'm glad we got to meet," he said quietly. "Rest in peace."

The woman who could give him answers was gone before he could ask the questions that mattered most.

He stood, brushed the dirt from his hands, and returned to the car. 

He headed to the next location. The will reading.

They arrived at a gated property. A guard approached as they slowed.

"Name?"

"Scott Hunter."

The guard signaled the station. The gate buzzed open.

The driveway stretched for almost two minutes—perfectly manicured, lined with ornamental trees.

At the end stood a mansion so tall Scott couldn't see the top even when he squinted.

It was painted white with gold trim that looked real.

Hector Hunter was stupidly rich. Probably eccentric too.

Scott hesitated at the base of the stairs. Unease crept up his neck.

He adjusted his collar. 

"Everything okay, sir?" Gerry asked.

"Everything's fine." Scott straightened. "I won't be long."

He climbed the steps and approached the double doors flanked by guards.

"Scott Hunter."

One guard opened the door.

Scott stepped into a living room with ceilings high enough to bungee jump from.

A small crowd—maybe a dozen people—stood in clusters, all dressed in black.

He approached them.

A man stepped into his path, blocking him.

"Who are you? This is a private event for family only. The funeral ended an hour ago. Leave."

Scott held his ground, even as the man stepped uncomfortably close.

Every head in the room turned.

Scott looked past him, meeting the eyes of the gathered crowd.

"I'm Scott Hunter," he said, his voice calm and controlled, filling the room. "I believe you're expecting me."

He walked past the man and took a seat.

The room fell silent. They knew who he was. 

"So you're the bastard we've been waiting for?" the man said coldly.

Scott didn't take the bait.

He just smiled.

This must be my half-brother. My rival.

Scott settled into his chair, resisting the urge to scan the room.

He could already feel the eyes on him.

"Since all parties are present, we can begin," said an older man seated at a table stacked with files.

Simon Sidwell. The lawyer.

The man who'd confronted him sat down reluctantly.

Simon continued. "We are here to read the will of Hilda and Hector Hunter, may they rest in peace, and determine the rightful heir to the Hunter inheritance."

He adjusted his glasses.

"With Hector and Hilda's next of kin, Francis, being also deceased—bless his soul—the right to claim will go to either one of his children: Ian or Scott Hunter."

Scott swallowed hard.

Francis. The father who never acknowledged my existence.

Simon continued.

"The inheritance is currently valued at seventy billion dollars—including gold, investments, cash, and liquid assets."

Whispers rippled through the room.

"The will states that if both Ian Hunter and Scott Hunter are present—which they are—the rightful heir will be determined by whoever successfully fulfills these three clauses within the next twelve months."

Simon flipped a page. The sound sliced through the tension.

"The clauses are as follows: The successor must be married for at least one year. The successor must demonstrate a fifty-percent profit increase from personal ventures within the year. And finally, the successor must prove they are truly a Hunter."

Simon closed the file.

"If both parties agree to proceed, a meeting is scheduled for ten a.m. tomorrow at Hunter Autos to finalize participation and sign NDAs. That's all."

Whispers erupted.

"What does 'prove they are truly a Hunter' mean?" asked a woman with silver hair pulled into a tight twist.

She looked like she was in her sixties but ageless in the way only money could buy.

"Or maybe," Ian said, standing and walking toward Scott, "it's because we have a traitor among us, and that's a warning."

He loomed over Scott.

Scott ground his teeth. He remained seated, unflinching.

"Ian's right," the older woman said. "Blood doesn't make you family. You've lived your entire life outside this world. What makes you think you belong here now?"

Scott stood slowly, brushing past Ian.

He looked directly at the woman.

"I'm here at the personal request of my grandmother, Hilda," he said, his voice steady and confident.

He shifted his gaze to the rest of the room.

"I've been in contact with Simon, the—"

Then he saw her.

Emily.

No. My mind must be playing tricks.

But it was her.

She sat three rows back, wearing a fitted black dress, her hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

Scott's chest tightened.

Confusion washed over him.

What the hell is she doing here?

Their eyes locked.

For a second, neither moved.

Then she stood abruptly and walked toward the exit, her shoulders rigid.

His stomach dropped.

Is she a Hunter?

If she was connected to this family—to Ian—

Had she known who he was?

Scott's thoughts spiraled.

"What a joke," Ian said, his voice dripping with mockery. "My supposed half-brother is a bit of a slowpoke"

Murmurs spread through the crowd.

Scott snapped back, recovering smoothly.

He ignored Ian and looked at Simon.

"Ten a.m. tomorrow?"

Simon nodded.

Scott turned and walked out.

Outside, Scott slid into the car, his mind racing.

What’s she doing at my grandmother's will reading?

Before he could close the door, a figure slipped inside and shut it behind her.

Gerry tensed, but Scott raised a hand.

It was Emily.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're following me." Scott's voice was calm but edged with curiosity.

Emily's eyes were desperate.

"Can we talk?"