1. AllNothing （Hattie） #2
When it got dark, sometimes we’d sit there and look at the lighthouses glowing in the distance. It made the world feel endless when the engine cut and there was nothing but stars and sea and silence all around us.
My chest aches at the memory.
I wonder who gets the old boat?
“So many seals that time. I’ve never seen so many since, even up in Bar Harbor,” I say, trying to focus on the happy memories.
“They were so close. They didn’t care that we were right there. That little pup swam right up to the boat.” Margot gives another tired smile, though this one doesn’t reach her eyes. “PopPop was pumped. Honestly, it might’ve been the last time I saw him laugh like that.”
“In another life, he could’ve been one of those crazy globe-trekker wildlife photographers.”
Margot shakes her head. “Nah, he was too impatient for that. He could’ve never stayed still long enough.”
I laugh because it’s true.
Leonidas Blackthorn lived as long as he did because he was always moving. Bustling around making food, building elaborate sandcastles with us on the beach, taking us sailing, or just handling one of the thousand things that kept his moneymaking empire intact.
“Remember when Gramps loaned me Ares the first weekend at college?” Margot asks.
“Ares!” I smile affectionately.
Leonidas’ dog was a chill companion, a grumpy old basset hound who loves only one thing more than pets—sleeping.
At least, he was Leonidas’ dog. I don’t know who’ll own him now. Margot, hopefully.
“He wouldn’t budge no matter what we did, and he was a lot younger then,” she says, taking another sip of her drink and sighing when the caffeine hits her veins.
“Cubed carrots, chicken, steak. Those were good bribes.” I count the food on my fingers with a smile.
“That dog lives to nap.”
“Relatable.” I snort. “Remember that time I crawled around the garden for like half an hour, hoping he’d follow me?”
“You looked like Cousin Itt.” Margot’s face screws up.
“Or something out of a Japanese horror movie, I guess. All part of the charm.”
“Ares didn’t think so.”
“Excuse me,” I huff. “He finally got up and shuffled after me so he could lick my face.”
“Well, yeah. You made that peanut butter pie.”
I sniff, tossing my head to the side in mock outrage. “Ares and I understand each other, okay? We’re both peanut butter motivated.”
“If Ares could read, we’d really be in trouble,” Margot jokes.
“Yes. I’ll learn ten new tricks if there’s a book involved. If only it motivated me to walk more.” I sigh.
“Walking isn’t a trick, Hattie. But you look good. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She’s too generous.
We both know I could stand to shed some pounds and finding motivation is harder than the workout itself.
I pull out my phone and do a quick search.
“Actually,” I say, holding up a finger, “Merriam-Webster defines a trick as a deceptive, dexterous, or ingenious feat .”
Margot folds her arms, but she’s smiling.
Another surge of victory.
Keeping her smiling today is a huge accomplishment.
“Walking isn’t exactly ingenious or dexterous or whatever,” she says.
“Actually, I would say that when I’m walking, I’m being deceptively healthy.”
She gives up and leans back in her chair, covering her face.
I grin as I take another long pull of my drink, giving myself a whipped cream mustache I wipe off with the back of my hand.
But when her laughter dies down and her eyes turn pensive again, I know we can’t avoid dancing around the pissed off elephant in the room forever.
Neither of us wants to avoid it, really. It’s the whole reason we’re meeting this morning.
“So, how are you doing?” I level a gentle look. “I mean… really?”
“The polite answer? I’m coping, Hattie.” She exhales until her shoulders slump. “The reality is, total shit show.”
“I can only imagine.” I wince in sympathy.
“We had hyper-demanding dickheads on six different continents beating down our doors so they could be seen paying their respects. Rich people are so fucking obnoxious.”
I keep my mouth shut, because it’s true.
But seeing as she’s rich—and my personal exception to the rule—I don’t agree too enthusiastically.
“And let’s not even talk about the scammers. Holy shit, now that he’s dead, everyone wants to swoop in for a few crumbs of his pie. Dad had to throw this guy out who showed up all the way from Boston, trying to sell handcrafted funeral wreaths.”
“Oh yeah, the funeral. How’s that coming along?” I ask cautiously.
“There wasn’t one. Gramps insisted he didn’t want any big goodbyes and made sure he let us know it through his lawyer. My parents were relieved at the savings. But you know what they’re like.”
I do.
Let’s just say Leonidas Blackthorn’s business genius skipped a generation. Margot’s folks like to call themselves entrepreneurs, but what they really are is pampered, living off the family trust.
Without it, they’d go broke before you could blink.
At least, the rich-people version of broke where they need to downsize to two mansions to keep eating at Michelin star restaurants.
“Then there’s Ethan.” Margot throws her hands up.
My heart sputters.
I clear my throat, aiming for cool, and totally sophisticated.
“Ethan.” My voice cracks slightly on his name.
Ethan.
Ethan!
Margot’s older brother. Also, the biggest savage ever born.
“You mean Ethan-Ethan?” I clarify, just in case she’s randomly sprouted another brother named Ethan in the last few years.
Like, a nicer one who isn’t moody, despicably attractive, and who didn’t tease me remorselessly growing up—when he noticed me at all.
It didn’t happen often, not unless he wanted a laugh at my expense.
That’s how it is with older brothers and their kid sister’s friends, though. Especially when they’re born with a chip on their shoulder the size of a two-by-four.
He’s only about four years older than me.
Just old enough to be around during our formative years and treat us like dirt.
When he wasn’t raising hell and getting locked up by Leo’s bodyguard, he bullied us mercilessly.
I’m not sure it ever dragged Margot down much.
She gave back as good as she got.
But me, I was—let’s just say I wasn’t a very confident teenager.
When Ethan came in with cruel jokes, they had teeth.
“The one and only,” Margot answers, not noticing I’m in stage Ethan of heart failure.
It shouldn’t shock me so much.
He’s family and I knew he’d come up at some point.
“And what about your cousin, Cleo? She’s so sweet.”
“She’s crashing out.” Margot shakes her head. “She’s taking it crazy hard. I don’t know if she’ll even come back to meet with the lawyer anytime soon.”
“Sad.”
“I wish it was someone else ghosting, but meh.” She sips her latte.
“I don’t know, he should be here, right?” I rasp. My throat feels like a desert despite the coffee. Caffeine isn’t strong enough to erase Ethan’s harsh laugh and malicious blue eyes.
Actually, their eyes are almost the same.
But his are empty. So much colder.
“He’s been back in Maine for a while, you know.” Margot flicks her wrist like this information won’t bowl me over. “He came back a few months ago to help PopPop and the team with some new acquisitions.”
“He did? Oh, wow,” I say weakly.
“I should’ve told you sooner, but the bonehead swore me to secrecy. Portland’s just a place to crash for him.” She rolls her eyes. “Leave it to Ethan to treat a job most guys would kill for like a death sentence.”
“Yeah, that’s him. Spoiled rotten.” I force a smile as more sugar hits my system.
“But since we’re on the subject”—she stops and smiles—“actually, he’s the reason I had to see you today.”
“Why, does he want you on the team? You hate real estate.” I frown.
“No, not that. Thank God.” Margot’s phone buzzes and she glances at the screen, nodding. “Oh, good, she’s on time.”
She?
I am so confused.
“…is someone else coming?”
“Kinda. I honestly didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you, so I brought in backup.” She smiles shakily and turns, just as the bell trills and a woman walks in.
I watch her through a break in the bookshelves.
She looks like she was born in a business meeting, or maybe a catwalk. Maybe a business meeting on a modeling runway.
Everything about her is neat, from the small gold necklace around her neck to the perfectly starched collar of her blouse that contrasts with her light-brown skin.
Formal, but elegant. Her cream blouse is tucked into the kind of waist you usually only see on Instagram, so effortlessly trim and perfect I start wishing I’d thought to dress up a little.
“Miss Sage.” She gives me a brusque nod and an impassive smile once she reaches our table. Then she takes the seat Margot pulls out for her. “I’m Jackie Wilkes, Leonidas Earl Blackthorn’s estate lawyer.”
Did I hear that right? Estate lawyer?
“Um,” I say. Insightful . “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, which is pitched to be the right level of firm without gripping too hard.
Obviously.
I bet that’s something they teach you in law school, along with impeccable fashion sense and how to scare the average person in under five words.
“This is Harriet,” Margot says, making the introduction with a slightly wide-eyed grin.
“Just call me Hattie,” I say. “Everyone does.”
“Hattie,” Jackie repeats with another walled-off smile. “Very well. You can call me Jackie.”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to be honored or if it’s common courtesy. What else are you supposed to say when you’re suddenly meeting a strange lawyer, though?
“So, I know this is weird,” Margot adds. “But trust me, when you hear what this is about, you’ll get why I went for the whole lawyer thing.”
I glance between them quickly, officially freaked.
“Okay… What’s this about?”
“Gramps, of course.” Margot gestures at Jackie. “Go ahead.”
The lawyer never breaks her smile, cool and efficient. “As you may know, Hattie, Mr. Blackthorn was a highly successful man, but he had a few peculiarities.”
I nod slowly.
“Yes, I’m familiar.” I trade a glance with Margot, but she’s not smiling. Instead, she’s chewing her lip, looking worried .
Not good.
“These peculiarities extended to his last will and trust, and I’m afraid some of those conditions impact you directly,” Jackie explains.
She pauses and opens the leather briefcase at her side, retrieving a neatly clipped pile of documents she pushes across the table.
My eyes flick down in horror.
Some lines of text are already highlighted in yellow. I realize I’m looking at the will. Or a copy of some section of it.
“As part of Ethan Blackthorn’s inheritance specifically, Mr. Blackthorn set a rather unusual condition for his grandson.”
The grandson mention has me reeling again.
What the hell could anything involving Ethan have to do with me? My hands shake as I scan the paper. The highlighted lines blur.
A sixth sense tells me what’s coming, even if I can’t believe it.
This absolutely, categorically cannot be happening.
“No way,” I croak.
“Ethan Blackthorn’s inheritance—namely, his full trust and controlling stake in Blackthorn Holdings—has a curious contingency,” Jackie says, not beating around the bush, which is a good thing because I can’t decipher legalese through my spinning thoughts. “You must become his wife.”
There’s the mic drop.
And that’s when the shock catches up like a relentless wave, pulling me under, until the world I know spins into blackness.