The Legacy Elle Kennedy Novels & Stories

Put the flare gun down now! I ignored him and instead used my free hand to lightly tap the metal canister beside me. The canister emitted a crisp echo, sounding particularly piercing in the dead silence of the freezer. "That's Ms. Jameson's lifeline! In order to have an heir, she spent a whopping 200 million dollars to acquire it from an Almoran tribal chief! It's said to be top-tier genetics that occur once in a century! "As the quality control supervisor, I personally handled the warehousing procedures. You tell me—do I or do I not know how important it is?" I retorted.

“But ruling a pack is more than emotion. It's a strategy. Legacy. Loyalty. Has she proven hers?” “Elara—” I warned, but she raised a hand, still the picture of calm. “I only ask what others wonder, Killian. We barely know her. And already she’s brought danger into these walls. We cannot afford uncertainty.” Something in me snapped. “You’re not asking,” I said, stepping toward her, “you’re accusing. Say it plainly if you dare.” Her eyes flicked to the Elders, then back to me. “I am loyal to the pack and have always been loyal. To you. I only—”

I took two long strides forward, crowding her space until she had to tilt her head back to look at me. "You were the one who gave me ultimatums," I hissed, keeping my voice low so it would not carry to the guards at the end of the hall. "You were the one who demanded I choose between you and everything my father built. Everything he died for." "He did not die for it," she snapped back. Her eyes flared with a sudden, vicious light. "Neither did he die because of it. Life just happened, Nixon. It is sad. It is very sad. But you did not have to uproot your own life to keep his legacy. A legacy that would have still stayed in your family. With your own blood."

It was a secret not yet ready to be spoken aloud too many times, lest it lose its shape or turn against us. The Legacy Common Hall rose into view like a cathedral carved from ambition and fire. Gold-fluted pillars framed the entrance. A chandelier the size of a carriage loomed overhead, its crystal drops catching the warm light like the glint of watchful eyes. The moment we crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Heavier. Colder. Hungrier. This wasn’t just a place to study or socialize. This was the stage where legacies rehearsed their dominance. And there, beneath a cascade of amber light by the bay windows, sat Ingrid Marrow.

"If I may, Mrs. Lancaster. I've served this family for thirty-five years. Seen three generations of Lancaster wives." I look up, surprised by this unexpected confidence. "It doesn't get easier," Mrs. Reynolds continues, her lined face solemn. "The photographs. The public smiles. The performance. But you find ways to preserve yourself within it. Small ways to remember who you are beneath the Lancaster name." The insight from this unexpected source strikes me deeply. "Like what?" A small smile creases the older woman's face. "Mr. Reginald's wife kept a private diary no one was allowed to read. Mr. Adrian's mother painted in a studio at the guest house, art that was never shown at Lancaster fun

Elara had included them. She had included the section with the crossed-out note—who am I without the legacy?—in which she had written about sitting with the question for three years before arriving at an answer. The answer was: she was still the same person who had been carrying the legacy for forty years. The legacy was part of her, not external to her. Setting it down—which she was not doing—would not remove the part of her that had been shaped by it. She was the High Healer whether or not she held the title. She was Wren's daughter whether or not she performed the role. The question answered itself, eventually, through the living rather than the analyzing.

With a kind of freedom she hadn’t believed she’d ever earn. And still—The past had a long shadow. And still, the past cast a long shadow. that morning, Eden found a letter in her mailbox. No return address. Inside was a single photograph. Malik. Verena. Herself. Three people caught in a moment at the Wolfe Global gala—smiling at a future that never came. The back read: “Legacies don’t vanish. They wait.” Cassian found her standing by the window, staring. “Still haunting you?”

The room fell quiet again. Julian took the memo from her and read it twice. He didn’t speak until he had closed the folder completely. “They’re trying to discredit the legacy. If they can’t control it, they’ll burn it down.” I felt the first rush of anger then. Not panic. Not fear. Anger. Controlled. Familiar. Useful. “They can try,” I said. “But they forgot something.” Claudia raised her brows. “What?” I looked up. “That the legacy doesn’t belong to them anymore. It never did.”

My grandfather was a thief. He stole my grandmother’s name and the opportunity that could have taken her out of the backwoods, then left with another woman by his side. One of them became a prominent law professor, standing at the front of lecture halls talking about fairness and justice. The other became a renowned fine artist, speaking in front of news cameras about art and integrity. Meanwhile, my grandmother was trapped in the backwoods her entire life, enduring pointed fingers and malicious insults everywhere she went. She died with her eyes wide open, refusing to rest in peace. Fifty years passed. I owed everything to the sacrifices of my grandmother and mother. Thanks to them, I

But later, when the land got marked for redevelopment, she regretted it deeply. Pretending to be secretive, I leaned close to Wallace's ear and whispered, "The truth is, my dad wasn't just anyone. He was the CEO of Hampton Corporation. And the safe buried under his grave? It's filled with bearer bonds he hid for emergencies. They're worth a fortune!"