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 said, his jaw tightening.

“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 Bird’s?” Susan asked, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

“It sucked. Had to make my own fun.”

His thoughts drifted to Emily—his tenant who’d kissed him and disappeared. 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 with steady hands.

Going to a relative’s funeral. Relatives who didn’t know he 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 1 hour. Will reading in 2 hours.]**

Followed by addresses.

The text was from Simon Sidwell, the family lawyer—the same man who’d delivered Hilda’s letter.

“It’s time, sir,” Gerry, his said from the doorway.

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

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

His stomach twisted.

“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 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, brushing the dirt from his hands, returned to the car and headed to the next location.

The will reading.

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

“Name?” the guard asked.

“Scott Hunter.”

The guard signaled the station. The gate buzzed open.

The driveway stretched for two minutes—perfectly manicured, lined with ornamental trees. At the end stood a mansion so tall Scott couldn’t see the top even squinting.

It was painted white with gold trim that looked real.

Hector Hunter was stupidly rich. Scott thought. Probably eccentric too.

Still, his grandfather had taste.

Scott hesitated at the base of the stairs.

“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 private. 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 exactly where it needed to. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

He walked past the man and took a seat.

The room fell silent.

“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 thought.

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

He could 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 paused.

“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 three clauses within 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.”

“If both parties agree to proceed, a meeting is scheduled for ten a.m. tomorrow at Hunter Autos to finalize participation and sign NDAs.”

Simon closed the file.

Whispers erupted.

“What does ‘prove they are truly a Hunter’ mean?” asked a woman with silver hair pulled into a severe twist, wearing a tailored Chanel suit. 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 Grandfather’s warning.”

He loomed over Scott.

Scott 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,” he said, his voice steady. Confident. Calm.

He shifted his gaze to the rest of the room.

“I’ve been in contact with Simon, the law—”

Then he saw her.

Emily.

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. His breath caught. 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. If she was connected to this family—to Ian—then last night wasn’t chance. Had she known who he was? Had she been using him?

“What a joke,” Ian said, his voice dripping with mockery. “My supposed half-brother can’t even finish a sentence.”

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 was Emily doing at his 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 said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

Emily’s eyes were desperate. “Can we talk, sir.”