36. Penelope
How did I go from being normal to a fourteen-year-old almost worth a fortune, to a worthless eighteen-year-old, and now back to possibly being worth a fortune again in just four years?
I wish I could bring my great-grandfather back from the dead and demand to know exactly what the hell he thought he was playing at with this godforsaken will he wrote. I’d love to really understand what he hoped to achieve. Was he just so narrow-minded that he thought he could brandish his money like a carrot to a donkey and we’d all just fall into line?
I imagine that’s probably exactly what he thought, because that’s what he did, and it worked, at least for a while. Did he understand who his grandson was and the position of power he was putting him in when he left me all that money when I was still a child? Did he expect them to manipulate me, to use me, and to break me as a way of accessing the inheritance? Was that his plan all along?
My mind plays over a thousand possibilities on the drive over to the lawyer’s office, but the only real conclusion I can come to is that my great-grandfather was an asshole. He used his money to play with all of our lives. He overlooked his only son and his only grandson and left all his money to me.
But the ironic thing is that my grandfather is really the only one who’s dealt with this whole situation with any dignity. He disputed the will to start off with, but when the courts told him the will would stand, that the money was mine, he just walked away. He and my grandmother just carried on living their lives in their homes in New York, the Hamptons, and Martha’s Vineyard. I didn’t see them before, I don’t see them now, and I have so much more respect for them because of that.
I don’t know what I want the lawyer to tell me today. Inheriting the Rhodes fortune with no stipulations would be the ultimate revenge on my parents, but the truth is, I don’t think I want the money. It’s tainted by all the sins I committed in its pursuit, and I don’t want that on my conscience again.
For the first time in four years, my soul is light, and it’s because I’m free. I’m working on my relationship with my sister, I’m engaged and in love with a guy who wants me just the way I am, sins and all.
I want my parents to suffer, but I don’t trust who I’ll become if I’m given so much power and responsibility.
If Izzy and I weren’t friends now, I’d wish this burden on her, but she’s too pure, too good for me to do that to her. I don’t want any of us to have to deal with it, but if not us, does it fall back to my parents or my grandparents? Who inherits if not me?
We’re all here, all six of us seated in Kip’s limo on the way to the lawyer’s office. I haven’t made an appointment again, but just like last time, I know they’ll see me. I didn’t want Mr. Stanton to have time to forewarn my parents about this, although, as we found this letter hidden in my mom’s safe, I’m assuming they’re already aware of this convoluted plot twist.
The others are all chatting, but I’m feeling too introspective to be good company, so I’m just sitting here, silently freaking out.
“Stop,” Hawthorn whispers against my ear. “No matter what happens in this meeting, nothing changes. Rich as the King of England, or poor as a homeless person, I don’t care. I love you and you love me, so give me your hand, kiss me, then let’s go and find out what else your great-grandfather has planned for you.”
A relieved sigh falls from my lips as I place my palm against Hawthorn’s and let him take control. I don’t think I’ll ever stop needing him to take over, even if it’s just for a minute at a time. His orders ground me, they silence the doubts in my mind and allow me just to be.
Our limo pulls to a stop, and I glance out the window at the familiar brownstone fa?ade of the offices of Stanton, Stanton, and Kingston. The last time I was here, I was alone, but this time I’m surrounded by family.
Last time I sat in an Uber and wondered if my sister and I would have been closer if she’d have gone with me. Now she’s here by choice because she wouldn’t let me do this alone. So much has changed in my life, and walking away from this money was the catalyst that caused it all.
“Let’s go,” Hawthorn says as the driver opens the door. Pulling me to the edge of the seat, he climbs out, helping me out then guiding me forward so the others can all climb out after us.
When we’re all standing on the sidewalk, I glance around at the strangers who have become my family and flash them a shaky smile, then I inhale sharply, straighten my spine, and move, striding to the buzzer and pressing it.
“Stanton, Stanton, and Kingston, how may I help you?” the same receptionist from last time asks.
“Penelope Rhodes to see Mr. Andrew Stanton,” I say, hating the sense of déjà vu that hits me. When we hear the lock disengaging, Hawthorn reaches around me and pushes open the heavy wooden door, gesturing for me to walk through.
Retracing the same steps I took the last time I was here, I stride into the wood-paneled room and cross straight over the desk.
“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asks.
“I don’t, but if you could let Mr. Stanton know I’m here, I’m confident he’ll see me,” I say using my Penelope voice, as Hawthorn likes to call it.
The man pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and lifts his phone receiver to his ear. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I have a Penelope Rhodes in reception.” He listens for a second, then says, “Yes, sir.” Replacing the receiver back into the cradle, he looks up at me. “He’ll be right out.”
Narrowing my eyes, I nod condescendingly, then turn to the others and try to smile.
“I love it when you go all Penelope Rhodes on people,” Davis says with a wink.
This time when I smile, it’s real, and I feel some of the tension that’s been building in me since the moment we got in the limo to come here start to dissipate.
“Miss Rhodes,” Mr. Stanton says, his voice booming and a little too loud for the space.
Spinning around, I greet the man. “Hello, Mr. Stanton, thank you for agreeing to see me. This is my fiancé, Hawthorn Benedict,” I say, gesturing to Hawthorn beside me. “My sister Izabella, her fiancé Gulliver Winslow, and our friends Kip Tudor and Davis Aldrich,” I say, pointing to them each in turn.
Mr. Stanton greets everyone with a polite nod, then turns back to me. “Penelope, I assume you got one of my letters?”
“Letters?”
“I’ve been trying to contact you. You didn’t get my letters?” he asks, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
“I’m afraid I didn’t, I’m no longer living with my parents.” Glancing over at the receptionist, I look back at Mr. Stanton. “Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more private?” I suggest.
“Oh, of course, of course,” he says. “Please come through to my office.”
Silently, we all follow him into his office, which feels a little crowded with all six of us in here, despite it being a large space. “Err…” He clears his throat, glancing at the hoard of people I’ve brought with me. “Shall we sit? I’ll have Gerald bring in some more chairs.”
“Davis and I are fine standing,” Kip says politely.
“Well, okay then,” Mr. Worth says, moving behind his desk and lowering himself into his seat.
“I recently came into possession of a letter my great-grandfather wrote to me,” I say.
“Ahh yes, I assumed your parents would have given it to you.”
“My parents and I are estranged,” I say simply. “They weren’t supportive of my decision to forfeit my inheritance. Are you saying they knew about my great-grandfather’s letter and its contents?” I ask.
Mr. Stanton laughs, a deep, booming noise that shocks me. “Reginald was a brilliant but old-fashioned man, he wanted the world to move backward, back to a time that made more sense to him. I told him those damn rules wouldn’t work, but he was determined to try. That’s why I advised him to put something in place in case you failed to live up to his unrealistic expectations.” Pulling a file from a drawer, he places it on his desk, flips it open, and lifts up a pile of papers. Glancing to the others in the room, he looks to me, his eyebrows lifting in question. “What we’re about to discuss is of a confidential nature, perhaps a little privacy?”
“It’s fine, this is my family, they can hear whatever we’re about to discuss,” I tell him.
He nods stoically, glancing at the others again, before turning all of his attention to me. “Penelope, when you came to see my colleague Roger and told him that you’d deliberately broken the will, he wasn’t aware of the alternative clauses your great-grandfather had put in place. I apologize that it took me a few weeks to be made aware of the situation. When Roger came to me and told me about his meeting with you, I wasn’t sure what to say or do. He explained your reasoning for wanting to break the will to me, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure if you’d said those things as an excuse. At the end of the day, you’re an eighteen-year-old girl, and I questioned if perhaps you hadn’t wanted to admit that you’d slipped up and broken a rule. But then he told me that you’d said that if you didn’t get away from this money, there would be nothing redeemable about you left, and I knew at that moment that your great-grandfather truly was wrong to have placed that burden on you. I realized that those ill-conceived rules were fallacious and, well, just plain wrong. I don’t know what happened to drive you to choose to break the will, but I want you to know, for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”
Blinking, I stare at the man in front of me, unsure what I’m supposed to say. “Thank you,” I say a little stiffly.
“Why were you trying to get in contact with Penelope?” Hawthorn asks when he sees me struggling.
“Yes.” Mr. Stanton clears his throat. “Yes, well, Reginald left sealed documents revealing his wishes on the occasion that the will was broken, but as I mentioned, Roger wasn’t aware of that.”
“So, what happens now?” Gulliver asks, prompting the lawyer to hurry up and explain.
Sitting up straighter in his chair and tapping the papers still in his hands against the desk to realign them, Mr. Stanton clears his throat. “In the event that you”—he gestures to me—“Penelope, deliberately broke one of the clauses of inheritance with the intent to disinherit yourself, your great-grandfather left several alternative directives depending on your reasoning. I feel I’m already aware of your thought process, but for the record, could you please explain to me in your own words the reasoning that led to your decision to deliberately disinherit yourself?” he asks, his tone formal, while his eyes betray his own emotions of sorrow and pity.
Closing my eyes for the briefest of seconds, I pull in a long, slow, affirming breath. A wry scoff slips from my lips as I look up and straight into Mr. Stanton’s eyes. “I didn’t know my great-grandfather well, or actually really at all, but when he died, he created a path for me, and at fourteen, I didn’t know how toxic and destructive it would turn out to be. His rules, enforced by my parents, ruined my relationship with my sister. It molded me into a manipulative, evil being who thought of nothing but the pursuit of a fortune, no matter the cost to myself or the people around me. For four years, I blindly did what I was told, what I thought was expected of me, and it wasn’t until those around me revealed their true colors that I understood how wrong it all was, how poisonous it all was. Money corrupts, and this inheritance corrupted me. I told Mr. Kingston the day I came to see him that this inheritance has stolen everything that should be good and right inside of me, it took my integrity, my sense of morality, my soul, and all because I thought that my only purpose was following those godforsaken rules. The best thing I’ve ever done was free myself of that burden, and honestly, I really hope he decided to donate his estate to charity or give it away to the needy, or just put it in one of his houses and set it all on fire, because I don’t want it, I really don’t,” I say with a slightly manic laugh.
Mr. Stanton swallows audibly, then clears his throat, his lips turning down into a frown as sadness fills his eyes. “I’m sorry, Penelope,” he says, his words filled with so much genuine conviction that I feel tears fill my eyes.
“It all comes to me, doesn’t it?” I ask, already knowing what he’s going to tell me before he says a word.
His nod is slow. “Your great-grandfather’s will had a morality clause hidden within the terms, which stated that if you deliberately chose to break the will because you felt that the rules and clauses were having a detrimental effect on your moral fortitude, then the will was forfeited and the estate in its entirety was passed to you with immediate effect.”
“I don’t want it,” I whisper, reaching out blindly for Hawthorn’s hand and clinging to him the moment he wraps his large, cool fingers around mine.
“The will does state that the inheritance is yours to do with as you please once you turn eighteen, so should you choose to—although I highly recommend you don’t—you can give it all away or donate it.”
“Izzy can have it,” I say, turning to my sister. “It should never have been mine; you can have it all.”
She shakes her head. “No, this is your future, Penelope, it’s too much.”
“Then we’ll split it half each, and then I’m not burning a fortune, just half of one,” I say on a choked sob. “Can I do that?” I ask, turning to look at the lawyer.
“Err,” he falters, obviously unsure what to say. “What you do with the assets from the will, is entirely up to you once you’ve received them.”
“Okay, then I accept,” I say, ignoring the lawyer and looking at my sister. “Then once all the paperwork is sorted out, half of it is yours, half of the money, the houses, the businesses, everything.”
“If I say yes, do you promise not to give all of yours away or burn it?” Izzy asks, a soft smile spreading across her lips.
“No,” I say on a half laugh, half cry.
“Mr. Stanton, as Penelope has inherited everything now, does that mean she holds responsibility for the family trusts that are already in place?” Gulliver asks curiously.
Flipping through the piles of papers, Mr. Stanton pulls out a sheet and starts to read while we all stare on silently. “Hmmm,” he says, placing the paper back down on the pile. “In normal circumstances, active trusts have a fixed amount of money that’s excluded from any final estate, but that’s actually not the case with Reginald’s estate. The trusts are all conditional and are part of the bequest. Why?” he asks.
Gulliver smiles, a deep, rumbling laugh falling from his lips. “That is excellent news,” he says, avoiding answering the lawyer’s question as his eyes light up with mischief.