Semua Bab The Stripping Heiress : Bab 41 - Bab 47

{Hailey’s Pov}Sunday arrived quiet and gray, the kind of morning that felt like it was waiting for something to happen. Williams drove me in silence to the McConnell Smith and Jones building, the same firm that had handled everything George Lachlan-related since before I was even born.Clara met us in the lobby—a sea of chrome and glass so sterile it made a hospital waiting room look cozy. The place was massive, clearly designed for high-stakes negotiations and power plays, not just simple will readings. And yet, the moment we walked in, it was nearly deserted.“You said I was the firm’s only client,” I told Clara as we passed a receptionist and a guard on our way to the elevators. “So why does this place feel like it’s hiding an army of lawyers behind closed doors?”“There are several divisions,” she said, her voice clipped. “Mr. Lachlan’s assets were… broad. He needed lawyers for each one.”“And the will I asked about—it’s here?”I kept a hand in my pocket, fingers brushing over th

The solarium was massive—vaulted glass ceilings, glass walls, sunlight pouring in like it had somewhere to be. Marcus stood at the center of it all, shirtless, barefoot, and bathed in gold. He looked like some tragic painting: ancient myth meets tabloid royalty. A bottle of bourbon rested near his feet, already a quarter empty. Again, like the first time we met, he was shirtless and drunk. Also again, I couldn’t seem to look away.“What’s the occasion?” I asked, gesturing toward the bourbon with a tilt of my chin.Marcus didn’t answer right away. He stared upward, swaying slightly, the muscles in his back tight with whatever storm was brewing in him.“Theodore. Arthur. Frederick. Wilder.” He rattled off the names like a prayer. Or a curse.I recognized them immediately. “Middle names,” I said, treading carefully. I swallowed hard. “They’re all surnames, your father’s?”Marcus let out a humorless laugh, bitter and hoarse. “Debra doesn’t talk about our fathers. Not a word. As far as she

“I told you what your mother said.”Marcus didn’t react right away. He just stared at me. Not blinking. Not breathing. “The old man chose our names.” His voice was quiet—flat—but I could already see the gears in his head turning.Then, all at once, it was like something snapped.“He picked our names,” he repeated, sharper this time. “He chose them, and then he highlighted them in the Red Will. He disinherited the family twenty years ago, and not long after that, he gave us our middle names.” Marcus began pacing the hallway, his movements quick, erratic—like an animal that suddenly realized the size of its cage.“Julian’s twenty-eight. I’m twenty-six. Aaron turns twenty-four next month.” He stopped walking. “It lines up. All of it.”I could feel him fighting for clarity, for control, trying to see the shape of the pattern that George Lachlan had left behind. “The old man was playing a long game,” Marcus muttered. “Our whole lives… we were pieces on his board.”“The names have to mean s