Chapter 3

{Hailey Pov}

I have never flown before. Looking down from ten thousand feet, I could imagine myself farther than Paris, the Maldives, and the United Kingdom. Places that used to live in my daydreams. Places I’d escape to, someday

But now…

Beside me, Kiara was in heaven, sipping on a complimentary cocktail. “Picture time,” she chirped.

Across the aisle, a lady shot Kiara a disapproving look. I wasn’t sure whether the target of her disapproval was Kiara's wide curls, the mini dress she wore, or the unapologetic selfie she was attempting to take, or the volume with which she’d just said the phrase warm nuts.

Adopting my haughtiest look, I leaned toward Kiara and raised my warm nuts high. Kiara giggled, laid her head on my shoulder, and snapped the pic.

She turned the phone to show me. “I’ll send it to you when we land.” The smile on her face wavered, just for a second.

“Don’t put it online, okay? Craig doesn’t know where you are, does he?” I bit back the urge to remind her that she was allowed to have a life. I didn’t want to argue. “I won’t.” That wasn’t any big sacrifice on my part. I had social media accounts but mostly used them on Stranger Online.

Speaking of… I pulled my phone out. I’d put it in airplane mode, which meant no texting, but first class offered free Wi-Fi. I searched and read more about George Lachlan.

He’d made his money in oil, then diversified. I’d expected, based on the way Harrison had said his client was a “wealthy” man and the newspaper’s use of the word philanthropist, that he was some kind of millionaire. I was wrong.

George Lachlan wasn’t just “wealthy” or “well-off.”

There weren’t any polite terms for what George Lachlan was, other than really insert-expletive-of-your-choice-here, filthy rich. Billions, with a b and plural. He was the ninth richest person in the United States and the richest man in the state of New York. Forty-six point two billion dollars. That was his net worth. As far as numbers went, it didn’t even sound real.

Eventually, I stopped wondering why a man I’d never met would have left me something and started wondering how much.

When we landed, a woman in a tailored white suit greeted us at the gate. She nodded at both of us.

A brown-haired woman in an all-white power suit met Kiara and me. She nodded to me and Kiara as she added a second identical greeting. “Ms. Vale.” She turned, expecting us to follow. To my humiliation, we both did. “I’m Clara Smith,"

She said, “From McConnell Smith and Jones.” Another pause, and then she cast a sideways glance at me. “We’re so glad you could make it.” Clara Smith, from McConnell Smith and Jones, didn’t wait for me to tell her anything. I had the sense that half of this conversation was hurried.

“During your time in New York, you’re to consider yourselves guests of the Lachaln family. I’ll escort you to the estate. Anything you need, you come to me.

She didn’t wait for our questions, just turned and walked.

Kiara and I followed like obedient ducklings.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Clara Smith asked, tree strolling toward an automatic door, her pace not slowing at all when it seemed like the door might not open in time.

I waited until I’d made sure she wasn’t going to run smack into the glass before I replied. “How about some information?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

“Do you know what’s in the will?” I asked.

“I do not.” She gestured to a black sedan idling near the curb. She opened the back door for me. I slid in, and Kiara followed suit. Clara sat in the front passenger seat. The driver's seat was already occupied. I tried to see the driver but couldn’t make out much of his face.

“You’ll find out what’s in the will soon enough,” Clara said, the words as crisp and neat as that dare-the-devil-to-ruin-it white suit. “We all will. The reading is scheduled for shortly after you arrive at Lachlan House.”

Not Lachlan's house. Lachlan House, like some kind of English Manor, with a title.“Is that where we’ll be staying?” Kiara asked.

“Yes,” Clara replied. “Your return flight is booked for tomorrow.”

Overnight. One night in a billionaire’s estate.

“You’ll have your pick of bedrooms,” Clara added.

“Mr. Lachlan bought the land the House is built on more than fifty years ago and spent every one of those years adding onto the architectural marvel he built there. I’ve lost track of the total number of bedrooms, but it’s upward of thirty Lachlan house is…quite something.”

That was the most information we’d gotten out of her yet. I pressed my luck. “I’m guessing Mr. Lachlan was quite something, too?”

“Good guess,” Clara said. She glanced back at me. “Mr. Lachlan was fond of good guessers.”

An eerie feeling washed over me then, almost like a hunch. Is that why he chose me?

“How well did you know him?” Kaira asked.

“My father was George Lachlan’s attorney since before I was born.” Clara Smith wasn’t power-talking now.

Her voice was soft. “I spent a lot of time at Lachlan House growing up.”

He wasn’t just a client to her, I thought. “Do you have any idea why I’m here?” I asked. “Why would he leave me anything at all?”

“Are you the world-saving type?” Clara asked like that was a perfectly ordinary question.

“No?” I guessed.

“Has your life ever been ruined by someone named Lachlan?”

I stared at her, then managed to answer more confidently this time. “No.”

Clara smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lucky you.”

Then we saw it, Lachlan House

It sat on a hill. Massive. Sprawling. It looked like a castle, more suited to royalty than ranch country. There were half a dozen cars parked out front and one beat-up motorcycle that looked like it should be dismantled and sold for parts.

Clara eyed the bike. “Looks like Luca made it at home.”

“Luca?” Kiara asked.

“ The oldest Lachlan grandson,” Clara replied, tearing her gaze from the motorcycle and staring up at the castle.

“There are four of them in total.”

Four grandsons? “If he had a family, why am I here?”

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