Chapter 6: The Will Nobody Was Supposed to Find
Grant's face changed so quickly that even Sloane noticed.
"My father has nothing to do with this," he said.
Martin closed his briefcase.
"Then you shouldn't be worried about the will.""
Grant stepped toward him.
"My father died six years ago.""
"His estate did. The original executor didn't.""
I looked between them.
"Who are you talking about?""
Martin glanced at me.
"Your grandfather appointed William Rowan as an independent executor shortly before he died.""
William Rowan.
Grant's father.
A man I'd met only a handful of times.
He'd been polite but distant, always wearing tailored suits and carrying a silver-headed walking stick.
He'd never seemed particularly interested in Rowan Works.
But he'd been present at our wedding.
He'd given me a small velvet box containing a gold key.
I'd kept it in my jewelry drawer for twelve years.
I suddenly remembered what he'd said.
"Some doors should remain closed until the right person is ready.""
I looked at Martin.
"Did the key have anything to do with the will?""
He nodded.
"I believe it did.""
Grant laughed.
"This is nonsense. My father never mentioned any second will.""
Martin turned toward him.
"Your father mentioned it to me personally.""
"When?""
"Three months before he died.""
"Why?""
"Because he believed someone was trying to steal Edward Bennett's legacy.""
Grant's expression hardened.
"You're lying.""
Martin removed a folded letter from his briefcase.
"This is his handwriting.""
Grant stared at it.
I took the letter.
The paper was yellowed at the edges, but the writing was unmistakable.
Martin, if Leah ever discovers the truth about the original trust, tell her to look beneath the west staircase at the Bennett estate. The key William gave her will open the cabinet.
I read it twice.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?""
Martin lowered his eyes.
"Because I was afraid.""
"Of what?""
"Grant.""
My husband scoffed.
"Don't flatter yourself. You were afraid because you knew what you'd done.""
Martin looked at him.
"I helped you move money through Rowan Works. I signed documents I should have questioned. I convinced myself that I was protecting the company.""
His voice cracked.
"But when I discovered the forged signatures, I realized you weren't trying to save Rowan Works. You were trying to take everything Leah inherited.""
I stared at him.
"Why did you help him?""
Martin didn't look away.
"Because I thought the marriage was falling apart anyway. Grant told me you'd agreed to sell your ownership privately. He said you wanted to leave the company and move overseas.""
"I never said that.""
"I know.""
He took a breath.
"That's why I came back.""
I looked toward the elevator.
"Let's go to the estate.""
Grant immediately blocked the hallway.
"No.""
I raised an eyebrow.
"Excuse me?""
"You aren't going anywhere near that house.""
"Why?""
"Because it's my family's property.""
I almost smiled.
"Actually, the estate was transferred into Bennett Capital's protected holdings years ago.""
Grant's mouth opened.
Then closed.
David Mercer checked his phone.
"Mrs. Rowan, the company helicopter is still available.""
Grant turned on him.
"You're offering her company transportation?""
David looked uncomfortable.
"She's the controlling guarantor.""
Grant laughed.
"She is my wife!""
I looked at him.
"Not for much longer.""
An hour later, I stood outside the Bennett family estate.
The house sat on a quiet stretch of land outside Charlotte, surrounded by enormous oak trees and an old stone wall.
I'd spent summers there as a child.
My grandfather used to take me through the gardens, explaining how every building, every investment, and every business decision should have a purpose.
The west staircase was inside the old library.
I found the cabinet behind a carved wooden panel.
The gold key slipped into the lock.
A soft click echoed through the room.
Inside was a black leather box.
Martin stood behind me.
"That's it.""
I lifted the lid.
There were three items inside.
A sealed envelope.
A small digital storage device.
And a photograph.
I picked up the photograph first.
It showed my grandfather standing beside a younger William Rowan.
But there was another person in the picture.
A woman I'd never seen before.
She was holding a baby.
On the back, my grandfather had written:
The beginning of everything.
I turned toward Martin.
"Who is she?""
He stared at the photograph.
"I don't know.""
I opened the sealed envelope.
The first page was a formal legal document.
The second was a handwritten letter addressed to me.
Leah, if you are reading this, someone has attempted to use your inheritance against you.
My throat tightened.
There is something I never told you about Grant's family.
I continued reading.
The Rowan family did not build its fortune independently. William and I entered into a private partnership decades ago. But when his son began working with my company, I discovered a pattern of deception.
I looked up.
"Grant?""
Martin nodded slowly.
"Keep reading.""
The final paragraph made my hands go cold.
Your husband was never supposed to inherit control of Rowan Works. I created the company under a different ownership structure for a reason. And if Grant has attempted to transfer your shares, he has likely activated the final protection clause.
I turned the page.
There was a list of names.
Fourteen names.
The same fourteen executives who had watched Grant humiliate me that morning.
Beside each name was a percentage of ownership.
And at the bottom was a final line.
*Upon the unauthorized transfer of Leah Bennett Rowan's shares, all executive voting rights shall immediately revert to the original trust, pending the appointment of its independent controller.*
I stared at the document.
"Who is the independent controller?""
Martin looked at the small digital storage device.
"I don't know. Your grandfather never told me.""
My phone rang.
Margaret.
I answered.
"Leah, we found something in the original trust records.""
"What?""
Her voice was urgent.
"The bank has confirmed that the emergency protection clause was triggered this morning.""
I looked at the document.
"Who controls the voting rights now?""
Margaret paused.
Then she said:
"Someone just submitted a claim identifying themselves as the original beneficiary.""
I gripped the phone.
"Who?""
A notification appeared on my screen.
An email from an address I hadn't seen in twelve years.
The subject line read:
May you like
*YOUR GRANDFATHER'S REAL HEIR.*
And the sender's name was the woman holding the baby in the photograph.
