Chapter 15
Wesley
Every night since Thanksgiving had been about Hunter—quiet suppers in his kitchen or mine, laughter spilling over cocoa, kisses lingering too long to be dismissed.
Every morning was about the store, catching up on orders, wrangling decorations, and trying not to notice how easily my thoughts drifted back to him.
In between, life blurred with preparations for the parade and the signing, until Callum messaged to ask if I’d come over for a chat about the legal pack I’d handed him to check.
In the past few weeks, I’d had two brisk email “reminders” from the Fairfax-Fitzalan lawyers, all caps on URGENT and RETURN BY COURIER; two increasingly icy voicemails from my oldest brother of all people insisting I sign immediately; and even a stiffly worded letter delivered by overnight courier, complete with embossed letterhead and the kind of fountain pen scrawl meant to intimidate.
I ignored the lot. Callum had the papers, and that was enough—for now, I let his steady competence shoulder the weight my head didn’t have room for.
He’d called me the day after I’d dropped them off, said he needed more time to consider the issues.
That was enough for me to stop worrying. After all, I knew I had until Christmas Eve to sign, given that it was my twenty-ninth birthday.
Then Brooke called this morning to say she’d watch the store and that Callum wanted to see me, so here I was, climbing the porch steps of the Haynes house, brushing snow off my boots before he waved me in.
The place was unusually quiet, and I glanced around the hallway with its row of tiny boots by the door.
“You don’t have the kids?” I asked, surprised.
It felt odd not to hear Alice chattering or Willow giggling somewhere in the background.
Callum’s expression stayed serious, his tone even. “No. Bailey’s taken them out for a bit.”
That clipped answer put me on edge. Callum was usually measured but warm, the kind of man who smiled easily.
Today, though, there was a weight in his voice, and it unsettled me.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, trying for casual.
I bet he hated having to deal with legal stuff and not getting paid for it.
I’m a fucking idiot. “Right. Just us, then,” I said with a smile.
He nodded once and gestured for me to follow, ushering me into his home office.
It overlooked the backyard, where the snow lay unbroken and dazzling in the weak December sun.
Even in here, though, there were signs of family life everywhere—crayon drawings taped up beside framed diplomas, a child-sized chair shoved up against the corner of the desk, a forgotten toy truck under the radiator.
It was all very Callum—lawyerly order threaded through with the chaos of being a dad.
“Wesley Darkwood, previously known as Fairfax-Fitzalan, pursuant to a legal change of name by deed poll,” Callum said, and I winced at the sound of my birth name rolling off his tongue.
Nobody called me that. Not anymore. Hearing it here, in his steady lawyer voice, made my skin prickle as if I were fifteen again and in trouble.
“I’m sorry, I mean it wasn’t a secret, but they… I didn’t want…”
He waved me off as if none of it mattered.
“The documents are very clever,” he said finally, pulling the familiar papers toward him.
His tone wasn’t admiring, though—more wary, as if he was showing me where the trap lay.
He tapped a paragraph with the end of his pen.
“This is a consent instrument—on the surface, you’re simply authorizing your trustees to act on your behalf in a defined investment opportunity.
Sounds harmless, and from what I’ve seen with the last ten or so you’ve signed, very much the same.
You sign, the trustees invest your principal, you make money, and that trust reverts to you next Christmas Eve when you turn thirty. ”
“Yes.”
“But here”—another tap—“the language on this latest missive is open-ended. You’re not just giving permission for this one deal.
You’d be delegating your discretionary powers over the trust corpus to your parents’ appointed agents.
In plain English? You’d be handing them the keys to the vault until the trust matures. ”
He flipped to the next page, finger skating down the dense paragraphs.
“Notice how it references ‘any such opportunities as the trustees, their assigns, or successors may deem beneficial to the estate’. That wording is dangerously broad. It means they could leverage not just the income, but the principal—the capital itself—if they argue it falls under the umbrella of ‘beneficial.’ And if those investments go sideways?” He looked up, expression grave. “You’d carry the loss. Not them. You.”
I swallowed hard, throat tight. The blocks of text swam on the page, and I hated how easily I’d almost signed my name to them just to stop the damn courier from showing up again.
Callum’s gaze softened a fraction, but his voice stayed firm.
“They’ve written this to look like standard trustee management.
But I’ve seen this trick before. It’s a reallocation of control, not an opportunity.
If you’d signed, Wesley, you’d effectively be signing away the safeguards that protect your portion of the trust until you reach thirty.
You’d still be the beneficiary on paper, yes—but in practice, they’d hold the reins. ”
I blew out a shaky laugh that wasn’t funny at all. “So basically, they’re taking my money? Why? The family is seriously loaded.”
“Were,” Callum said, and turned a sheet of numbers for me to see. “Your oldest brother, Benedict…”
Ben had been the first to cut me off. My chest tightened. “What about him?”
“Has a fondness for gambling, both with company investments and with his own inheritances.” Callum flipped another page, lips thinning.
“Your principal’s untouched, thank God. But the interest?
” He tapped the margin, hard enough to make the paper shiver.
“It’s been siphoned off for years. Payments disguised as administrative costs, management fees, even charitable donations routed through shell foundations.
All traced back to Benedict Fairfax-Fitzalan. ”
“He’s been stealing from me?”
Callum nodded. “This document isn’t just about one investment.
It’s a blanket authorization. If you’d signed it, Benedict could retroactively justify every siphoned dollar.
Wipe the slate clean, bury any liability, and tighten the noose so the same thing keeps happening, only bigger. And you’d have no way to fight it.”
I swallowed, throat dry. “Tell me something, Callum. How much of this… did they even have the right to do?”
“None,” he said. “Not without your consent. Which they never got and now they’re trying to rewrite history by shoving this under your nose.”
I laughed, no humor in it. “Fuck.”
His gaze sharpened. “Tell me more about your situation. All of it.”
So, I did. Slowly, haltingly, words spilling out as though they’d been waiting years.
“I came out at eighteen, and they made it clear I was done. No home. No college fund. No family name. Expelled, erased, disowned—the whole scorched-earth package.” I shrugged, because I’d been expecting it from my ultra-conservative red family with their fingers in politics and religion.
“My trust was the one thing they couldn’t take, because it came from my grandfather, not them.
They hated that. Still do. Every year, they’ve found some new way to try to pry it loose.
” I rubbed a hand over my face. “And the thing is… sometimes I almost want to just give in. To make them stop calling, stop sending papers, stop pretending they get to control me. Just… stop.”
“Eleven point three million dollars,” Callum murmured.
I shrank in my chair.
“I know.” I winced as he stared at me. “I don’t want it; I want to set up a charity or a fund for kids like me who didn’t have untouched savings to fall back on. I just need enough to keep The Story Lantern, if I make it that far.”
The silence stretched, broken by the faint ticking of the clock on Callum’s desk. Then he set the pen down with care and leaned forward, his lawyer mask slipping, leaving a friend.
“They’re counting on you to sign because it looks routine.
They’re counting on you to be tired, overwhelmed, too polite to dig deeper.
They’re banking on you being the scared kid they threw out.
” His voice dropped lower, gentler, but the steel stayed in it.
“You’re not that kid anymore. And they won’t trick you into handing back the little protection you’ve got. Not on my watch.”
“What do I do? How do I protect it until I’m thirty?” I asked, my voice thinner than I wanted.
Callum sat back, scanning the notes he’d written in his neat, blocky hand. “You’re twenty-nine in a few weeks.”
“Yes,” I said.
“That gives us just over a year until the trust transfers fully into your control. Until then, I can file an injunction to freeze any further activity. No siphoning, no backdoor deals, nothing without your explicit written consent.” His tone was clipped, efficient—classic lawyer. “It’ll buy us time.”
I sagged a little in relief—until the reality came crashing in. “Callum, I can’t afford you. Not now. I can barely afford to keep The Story Lantern’s lights on, let alone pay lawyer fees.” My throat tightened, guilt flooding me. “I shouldn’t even have asked—”
He cut me off with a shake of his head. “Wes, stop. The trust is designed to protect you, not bury you. You know what else it allows? You can take money from it to invest in your own future—education, property, business ventures. Before your thirtieth birthday.”
I blinked. “I can?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, sliding one of the pages toward me.
“Read this clause. ‘Funds may be released at the trustee’s discretion for the beneficiary’s advancement or maintenance.
’ That’s legalese for: if you can prove it’s for your welfare or to develop your future, it’s yours to use.
And The Story Lantern qualifies. It’s your livelihood. ”
My pulse spiked. “Enough to invest in the store for another year?”
“You’d need to show income and outgoings, projected growth, maybe even a plan for expansion. But yes—it’s your money.” His lawyer mask was back in full force, precise and unyielding. “And I’d make damn sure it’s watertight so Benedict”—he said the name as if it tasted sour—“can’t touch it.”
I leaned forward, half-hopeful, half-terrified. “So… I don’t have to sign anything. I don’t have to lose the store.”
“No, you don’t,” Callum said, his tone softening even though the steel stayed beneath it.
“You hand this over to me and focus on keeping your business running. From this point on, I’m your lawyer.
Everything goes through me. I’ll draft a formal letter making it clear your trust is no longer in their control. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll call in a few favors—get some colleagues to cross-check the paperwork so you’ll know everything’s being handled properly.”
“I trust you, Callum.” I hesitated, self-pity and anger at myself twisting in my gut. “Why didn’t I do this sooner? Why did I just… ignore it?”
Callum tilted his head. “Because your heart was broken, Wes. That money—your family—it all represented a life you had no choice but to leave behind. You didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to deal with it, because every reminder hurt.
” He gave a small shrug. “You buried it, the same way people bury pain. You weren’t stupid—you were just trying to survive. ”
My throat tightened, words catching somewhere behind the ache, but Callum offered a reassuring smile.
“Still,” he added gently, “always get a second opinion when it comes to legal matters, yeah?”
“I will.”
He handed me a card. “My professional links so you can find someone else, and don’t forget their costs can be covered by the trust.”
“They can?”
“Yes.”
“So, I can pay you?”
He seemed affronted. “I don’t need payment. This is my opinion as a friend, so contact someone from the professional registry and follow up. Okay?”
“Callum—”
“Brooke loves you, I love Brooke, and any advice I give you is free of charge because you’re family, Wes.
” He pushed the papers back into a neat stack, capped his pen, and stood.
“Get me the financials. Income, expenses, and your best guess at projections. Hell, even scribbles on a napkin. I’ll turn it into a plan we can draw against the trust. Within a week, we’ll have funds released—enough to stabilize The Story Lantern for the next year.
Then, when you’re ready, I can advise you on who you can trust with the charity idea. ”
“Couldn’t you do it? For money I mean. I don’t expect you to do it for free, but…” I ran out of words.
“I’m not that kind of lawyer, but believe me, I know plenty who are.”
I stood too, and when he held out his hand, I shook it—firm, professional. But then something in me cracked, and instead of letting go, I tugged him into a hug. “Thank you,” I whispered, my throat tight.
His arm came around me, solid and steady. “You don’t have to thank me. Just let me help.”
When we pulled apart, I scrubbed a hand over my face. “You won’t tell anyone about this, right? I mean, you can tell Brooke, she’s your wife, and I should have told her myself. But please, no one else for now, not my name, not the trust. I don’t want… anyone to know.”
Callum’s gaze sharpened. “Not even Hunter? You seemed so happy at Thanksgiving. Serious.”
I swallowed, heat pricking at my eyes. “It is. On my side. But Hunter’s restless. Unhappy. He’ll move on sooner or later. And that’s okay.”
Callum was silent for a beat too long, and when he nodded, the motion was deliberate.
Careful. His eyes gave him away, though.
He didn’t believe a word of what I’d just said.
Not about Hunter leaving. Not about me being okay with it.
But he didn’t call me out, only said quietly, “All right. It stays between us. But you don’t have to keep carrying this alone. ”
I gave a shaky smile, clutching the papers he’d handed back. Alone was exactly how I’d carried it all these years—but for the first time, maybe I didn’t have to.