Chapter 7

{Hailey’s POV}

“Now, then,” Mr. Smith continued as if no one had just declared my public enemy number one, “there is one final stipulation.”

Of course, there was.

“To receive full, irrevocable access to her inheritance,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “Ms. Vale must reside in Lachlan House for one year, commencing no more than three days from now.”

The room exploded. “What the hell?” Julian was the first to break. Not surprised. “Not.”

“That’s absurd,” Agnes snapped.

“I’ll allow it,” Aaron said, too brightly. “Might as well see how this soap opera ends.”

My stomach dropped. “Wait. I have to live here?” Mr. Smith didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

With them?”

“Yes.”

“Here?” I pointed down at the marble floor like I might find the answer there. “In this house. With the murderous stares. And Julian Lachlan?”

“You’re not staying,” Julian growled.

“She has to stay,” Clara said flatly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Otherwise she forfeits the inheritance.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Precisely.”

“This is insane,” Julian muttered. “This is a farce. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly ask to be here,” I snapped.

I stepped closer. “You think I wouldn’t? Trust me, rich boy, if your grandfather hadn’t stapled this nightmare, I’d be halfway back to Bourbon Street with a greasy cheeseburger in one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other.”

“Then leave,” he fired back.

You think this is a game?” Julian’s voice dipped low—menacing.

“You think I asked to be thrown into a soap opera with knives?” I bit back. “You think I wanted to walk into a house full of spoiled psychos with murder in their eyes?

His jaw clenched so tight I heard his molars scream.

“You don’t know what you’ve stepped into,” he said, his voice like poison.

“And you don’t know who the hell you’re talking to,” I snapped. “But here’s a clue—I’m not the one whining like the kingdom got hijacked by a stripper Cinderella.”

“Don’t push me,” he warned.

“Oh, please,” I barked a laugh. “You’re already so close to the edge, I could sneeze and send you flying. Go cry about it in your wine cellar.”

Williams, bless his timing, stepped in front of me like a human brick wall.

Julian paused. Coward.

I smiled, just enough to piss him off. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Silence settled thick and suffocating.

“Well, then.” Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “If the theatrics are finished, I’ll arrange Hailey’s room assignment and send along the remainder of her documentation.”

“She’s not staying in the east wing,” Julian said immediately.

“She’s not staying in the servants’ quarters either,” Clara added sharply.

“Then maybe she can have his room,” Debra suggested sweetly. “Since she’s so close to dear George.”

I looked at them. “Y’all want me gone so bad, maybe I’ll just sleep on the goddamn roof. Or in the wine cellar. That’s probably soundproof. Hell, maybe that’s where the last girl who got written into a will is buried.”

“Enough,” Mr. Smith barked. “Ms. Vale will have her own suite, by Mr. Lachlan’s wishes. She will stay on the estate for the next twelve months, uninterrupted, unchallenged, and unthreatened. Anyone who violates these terms forfeits their own inheritance.”

“Fine.” Julian’s voice was ice. “One year. But don’t expect me to play nice, I'm going to expose you.”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered. “I’ve never been a fan of make-believe.”

Julian stormed out. Likewise Marcus and Luca

Aaron gave me a wink before sauntering off like we were in a goddamn rom-com.

Agnes didn’t look at me. Debra did, and her stare could’ve set me on fire.

I stood there, shaking slightly. Kiara touched my arm, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Twelve months,” I whispered.

“You okay?” she asked.

I couldn’t answer.

Because in twelve months, I’d either be a billionaire, or buried beside George. “This is madness,” I muttered. “How the hell am I supposed to live in a house with people who already picked out their inheritance shopping carts? I don’t belong here.”

“It’s a consolation, it is a very large house,” Clara said calmly like this was some kind of real estate ad and I hadn’t just been force-fed a billionaire-sized life sentence.

“And if I refuse?” I asked, arms folded tightly across my chest. “Or if the Lachlan family has me—oh, I don’t know—killed in my sleep?”

“No one is going to have you killed,” Clara said flatly. “You heard it from my father. Smith.”

“I did hear him,” I shot back. “But forgive me if I don’t find ‘legally binding inheritance clause’ a strong enough deterrent for a bunch of rich sociopaths with generational grudges and zero impulse control.”

Mr. Smith exhaled like a man in desperate need of early retirement.

“This wasn’t the plan,” I muttered, half to them, half to myself. “I thought I was getting a check. Enough to get back to New Orleans, get a decent apartment, and maybe get a car.”

“A secondhand Mustang,” Kiara piped in helpfully.

“Yes!” I pointed. “A secondhand Mustang. Something with character. Not… this.” I motioned around the grand room with its gold filigree priceless oil paintings and the faint scent of blood money.

“I don’t fit here. I don’t speak their language. I don’t have pearls or silk pajamas or a trust fund nickname.”

“You don’t need any of those things,” Clara said with clipped patience. “You have the deed. And the legal backing of every clause your benefactor left behind.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I stared at her. “Because all it’s doing is making me a very shiny target in a very expensive cage.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Mr. Smith interjected, “but you are bound by the terms. George Lachlan made his wishes abundantly clear. A year here. Nothing less.”

“He really hated his family that much?” I asked, eyes darting toward the door Julian had stormed out of.

Clara’s mouth pressed into a line.

“I think he believed they’d already had their chance.”

That hit harder than I expected. Like someone cracked the window of a long-locked room.

“I didn’t even know him,” I whispered.

“Then I suggest you start learning why he knew you.” Mr. Smith handed me a thick folder with my name across the front in bold ink. “You’re not here by accident, Ms. Vale.”

I stared at it. My name. Neat, deliberate. Like a signature on a loaded gun.

“Great,” I muttered. “Billon-dollar homework.”

“If it helps,” Clara added, “the estate has a pool. And four libraries. And, supposedly, a ghost.”

Kiara perked up. “Wait, what kind of ghost?”

Clara ignored her. “My point is, you have options. You can hide in your room for a year. You can explore. You can make this your home. But whatever you do, you stay.”

“And the moment I leave?” I asked, jaw tight.

“You lose everything,” Mr. Smith answered.

Everything.

Not just the money. Not just the title. The mystery. The answers. The truth about why a man I’d never met left me the empire his own blood wasn’t allowed to touch.

“I’ll stay,” I said finally. “But I’m not playing nice.”

Clara smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I don’t think he is either,” Kiara whispered under her breath.

I knew who she meant. The angry heir. The storm in a tailored suit.

Julian Lachlan.

The man who just got dethroned—and was looking for someone to bleed for it.