The Letter

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which Elena would later think was fitting. Tuesdays were the kind of day when your life could implode and nobody would notice because everyone wanted Friday to arrive.

She found it wedged between a past-due electric bill and a credit card offer when she got home from Millbrook High, her canvas bag still heavy with ungraded still life paintings that her junior class had turned in. The bag contained twenty-seven paintings depicting fruit bowls. Twenty-seven different ways to make apples look depressing.

The envelope was a light cream color. Heavy paper. The kind of paper that cost more than what she could buy with her weekly grocery money.

*Ms. Elena Castellano* was written in real calligraphy on the front, not the kind that was printed to look like it was done by hand. Someone had paid a person to write her name.

Elena put it on the kitchen counter of her flat, which was really just a bedroom over the hardware store, and went to change out of her paint-stained cardigan. She would deal with the strange pricey letters later, after she took care of the strange brown spot on her ceiling that kept getting bigger even though she called her landlord three times.

But the envelope sat on the counter, shining like a dare.

She lasted for five minutes.

*Ashford & Associates, Estate Division, New York, NY,* was the return address.

Elena knew two things about New York: it cost a lot of money and was extremely distant from Millbrook, Vermont, which was just how she liked it. She had been to the city once before, on a school trip in eighth grade. On the metro, someone took her lunch money. At that point, she knew that Vermont had all the culture she needed.

She took the envelope out.

The letter inside was typed on identical cream paper, and the first line made her sit down on her thrift-store barstool.

Hello Ms. Castellano, We are sorry to have to tell you that Mrs. Victoria Ashford has died.

Again, Elena read it. Then a third time.

She had never heard of somebody named Victoria Ashford.

She kept on reading.

Mrs. Ashford died on September 3rd of this year. You are one of the main beneficiaries of her estate, according to her last will and testament. We need you to come to our Manhattan offices to talk about the terms of your inheritance.

Howard Chen, a senior partner, signed the letter. It also had a phone number with a 212 area code.

Elena's hands were shaking.

She didn't have a wealthy family member. She didn't have many relatives at all. Rosa, her mother, worked two shifts at the hospital. Elena's aunt in Florida, who sent her Christmas cards with twenty dollars cash inside and spelled her name wrong. That's all there was.

Her dad had died before she was born. A crash in a car. Elena's mom never talked about him, and Elena learned not to inquire when she was small.

She called her mother. "You're going to think I'm crazy," Elena continued when Rosa answered, "but I just got a letter saying I got something from someone named Victoria Ashford."

The other end was quiet for too long. "Mom?" "How did you come up with that name?" Her mother's voice had lost its edge. Not mad. More than frustrated. A New York City law company. They said—"Don't." Rosa's voice broke. "Don't go to New York. Don't call them again. "Throw the letter away." "What? Mom, what—" "I really mean it, Elena. That family is bad news. "Your father—" She stopped. "Please promise me you'll throw it away." "Did my father know these people?" "Promise me, Elena!"

Elena looked at the letter again. The phone number. The phrase "primary beneficiary." "I promise," she said, lying.

The next morning, around eight, she called Howard Chen.

His secretary let her talk to him right away, which should have been the first indicator. Lawyers with a lot of money in Vermont didn't answer calls from art professors. "Ms. Castellano." Howard Chen's voice was calm, professional, and polished. "Thanks for calling. I bet the letter was a surprise." "You could say that. I don't know who Victoria Ashford is." "Was," he said softly. "Mrs. Ashford was your father's mother."

The apartment leaned to one side. Elena took hold of the counter. That's not going to happen. "My father didn't have a family." "Marcus Ashford was your father. He hadn't spoken to his family in thirty years, but he was Mrs. Ashford's oldest son."

Marcus. She had never heard his name. Her mother had only ever called him "your father," as if speaking his name would bring back memories. "Why would she give me anything? She never saw me." "Mrs. Ashford's will is difficult to comprehend. I'd rather talk about the details in person. Are you able to come to New York this Friday?"

Elena looked about her home. At the mark on the ceiling. At the pile of bills. She had started a painting last month but stopped because she couldn't afford extra canvas. What type of inheritance are we talking about?

Howard Chen stopped. "Ms. Castellano, this is the kind that needs to be talked about in person." "Give me a number," Elena said.

Another break. Longer. "Three billion two hundred million dollars."

Elena let go of the phone.

She took it up with hands that were shaking. "You said—did you say billion?" "Yes. There are conditions, though."

There were, of course, conditions. There were always rules. Elena's life had never been easy, and it seemed like dying billionaires didn't change that. "What kind of conditions are you talking about?" Howard Chen remarked thoughtfully, "The kind that needs to be talked about in person."

Elena used her emergency credit card to book a bus ticket to New York. Six hours on a Greyhound that smelled like broken dreams and truck stop bathrooms. She looked up Victoria Ashford on G****e while she was on the bus.

The woman in the Forbes article who glanced back at her didn't look anything like Elena. Elena had an olive complexion, while this person was pale. Elena was dark, but she was lighter in complexion. Elena was soft but sharp. Wait, those eyes were recognizable. The same strange gray-green that Elena saw in the mirror.

Victoria Ashford turned a simple bed-and-breakfast that her husband left her into a hotel empire. The Ashford Collection grew to include six continents in forty years. The Ashford Collection now boasts two hundred and thirty properties. People called her the Iron Matriarch. The Queen of Hospitality. A woman who once fired a manager for offering a guest a complimentary cup of coffee.

She had passed away at the age of 89. She had a heart attack while she was sleeping. He is survived by one son, one grandson, and, it seems, one secret granddaughter who taught teens how to paint fruit.

There were just three articles that mentioned Elena's father, Marcus. All of this is from thirty years ago. Everything is about him quitting the family business. The most comprehensive one talked about a "bitter falling out" and said that Marcus had been "cut off completely" from the Ashford inheritance.

So why would Elena's mother give her billions?

The offices of Ashford & Associates were on three floors of a building in Midtown that probably cost more than all of Millbrook's taxes. Elena strolled into a lobby with marble and gold decor and passed a security desk where she had to present her ID. Then she took an elevator with a mirror that showed her how out of place she looked in her Target dress and secondhand coat.

Howard Chen met her in a conference room with windows that looked out over the city. He was Asian, fifty years old, and dressed perfectly. He stared at Elena like she was a problem he wanted to fix. He said, "Thanks for coming. Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?" "Answers," Elena said.

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. Please take a seat.

She sat down.

Howard took a stack of papers out of a leather folder. "Your grandma's will seems strange. She was a woman who thought it was important to test others. Mrs. Ashford gave you her whole estate, which includes the Ashford Collection, several homes, investment portfolios, and cash and other assets worth about $3.2 billion."

Elena's mouth got dry. Howard went on, "But there is a condition. You have to get married within thirty days of her death."

The room swirled. "Excuse me?" "To get the inheritance," Howard continued, "you must marry and stay married for a full year. The whole estate goes to the secondary beneficiary if you decline or if the marriage terminates before the year is up."

Elena laughed. It came out a little crazy. "This is crazy. "Who does that?" Howard's face didn't change when he said, "Victoria Ashford did that." "She was very clear about what she wanted." "And who am I supposed to marry? Does she have someone in mind? Is there a catalog?" "Yes, in fact.

He pushed a picture across the table.

The man in the picture was lovely like statues are beautiful—cold, precise lines. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw that could break glass. He had on a suit that was probably more expensive than Elena's automobile, and he stared at the camera like he owned it. Howard said, "This is Dominic Ashford. Your cousin. He is your real cousin. Richard, Victoria's younger son, is his father."

Elena looked at the picture. She was scheduled to marry this stranger. "Does he know about this?" "He got the same letter yesterday," Howard said. "And he'll be here in a minute."

The door to the conference room opened right on cue.

When the man from the picture walked in, Elena's initial instinct was that photographs didn't do him credit. He was taller than she thought he would be. Wider. He moved like violence wrapped in fine cloth.

He looked at Elena, and something flashed in his eyes. Maybe a surprise. Or figuring it out. Howard remarked, "You're late." "I'm right on time." Dominic's voice was deep, calm, and enraged. "You said twenty minutes. It's been more than twenty minutes."

He sat down in front of Elena without being asked. Without taking his eyes off her. "Okay," he said. "You're the secret."