2. All The Technicalities （Ethan）
ALL THE TECHNICALITIES (ETHAN)
P reposterous.
Certifiably fucking insane.
I pace the floor of the law office like a caged animal, my shoes practically burning a hole in the plush rug.
There are a thousand useful things I could be doing at this precise second, but instead I’m here. Cooped up in Jackie Wilkes’ immaculate office, listening to the outrageous pile of crap my grandfather put in his will.
The old man had to be senile.
There’s no other explanation.
“This is bullshit, right?” I glare at Miss Wilkes where she’s sitting behind the desk, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
As always, her dark hair is up in a neat bun and her skin looks like a tan statue.
Normally, I’d be impressed with her professional manner as she waits for me to get a damn grip, but right now I’m fucking livid.
“That’s your opinion, Mr. Blackthorn, and you’re certainly entitled to it,” she says calmly.
Not saying I’m right or wrong.
Polite and poised as always. Probably training for her future career in politics.
“Bull. Shit,” I repeat, snarling. “I cannot believe you’re even telling me this.”
“It’s in Leonidas Blackthorn’s will. You’re perfectly welcome to read it yourself, if you have any doubt.”
I know.
I know , but that doesn’t make anything better.
If it was in the old man’s will, what was he snorting to put it there?
No chance this was the result of some logical decision. No rational man decides to put a marriage clause in his will. Especially in a state where it’s goddamned legal.
I can’t overturn it, not without escalating this to high-level state courts, and that could take years.
Kill me.
Undaunted, Miss Wilkes opens a file and pulls out three papers, turning them around and pushing them to my side of the desk. Then she sits back and waits with the same iron patience as before.
An earthquake could rip the ground open and she wouldn’t bat an eye.
Gramps took her on five years ago, and she’s been a force of nature ever since, a legal hitwoman dressed in starched blouses and pantsuits ironed so perfectly the creases remain all day.
Case in point: it’s seven in the evening and we’re still going. And her creases are still fucking immaculate.
A small detail I reluctantly appreciate as I turn to face her and the copy of the will she’s printed.
It’s not that I don’t believe her.
I do.
The issue is there’s no good reason to uphold these lunatic terms. It feels like a constitutional infringement of my rights.
“And you see no reason to fight this?”
“Leonidas was perfectly within his rights to make this request, per existing Maine law, statute—”
“It’s not a request,” I clip, cutting her off. “It’s an unfair requirement for me to get my money, my inheritance. I need to marry a girl I don’t even know. What the fuck?”
“Correct.”
I reach up and grab my head, pressing the sides. I feel like my skull’s exploding and I need to hold it together.
“And you’re fine with this? You’re carrying this out?”
“I have no legal grounds to object, sir. I’m confident another attorney will reach the same conclusion.”
No legal grounds, my ass.
“I’ll hire my own lawyers. Hell, I’ll buy out the whole fucking law office if that’s what it takes to overturn this shit.”
Miss Wilkes glances at the time on her computer screen. “If that would help you feel comfortable, please do.”
Comfortable?
I can’t comprehend the meaning of the word.
I grind my teeth together as I stride to the window and do my best to stop my head from throbbing.
Yes, this is frustrating, but I have options.
Even if Jackie Wilkes clearly thinks I’ll just be chasing my tail.
Outside, the bay is stained orange and purple with the slowly setting sun, and Portland looks peak lush and green. Objectively, I know it’s beautiful, but I can’t look at this scene without seeing permanent grey.
Everything that happened here when I was a kid.
I never would’ve returned to this godforsaken place if Gramps hadn’t made me promise. Now, it looks like I’ll never get away.
It’s almost tempting to let the inheritance go, to walk away and figure out plan B for the rest of my life, but I’m done running.
I told myself it was past time to grow up.
“He couldn’t have been in his right mind,” I say, snapping my attention back to Miss Wilkes, daring her to argue. “What about Margot? Or Cleo? Is their inheritance this psycho?”
“Leonidas had his own keen and unique sense of fairness.” Of course, she’d say that. “Also, he was fully mentally and physically competent until the end. None of his physicians ever raised doubts.”
“He was dying, Miss Wilkes. He never even told us. How rational is that?”
A lump hardens in my throat.
“While unusual, it doesn’t represent grounds to challenge the fully informed decisions he made and wrote into his trust well before his illness.”
Fuck.
“So, wait. You’re telling me this is a totally reasonable decision made by a mentally healthy man?”
“With respect, nothing indicates otherwise. Not a shred of proof.”
I stride back to the desk and slam my hand on the copy of the will she presented me.
“You need more proof than this? Marriage, Miss Wilkes!”
She presses her lips together, the only gesture of disapproval I’ve ever seen. “I reiterate, Mr. Blackthorn, he was well within his rights. Pounding my desk won’t change that fact.”
Fuck me.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to find the calm she’s mastered. In the Army, discipline was paramount, but everything feels different back in the civilian world.
“You’re right. I apologize,” I say shortly.
She nods. “Apology accepted.”
“But you have to admit—this is bonkers. This screams crazy and demented. If he wasn’t, there’s no damn way he would’ve made my inheritance contingent on marrying this girl.”
I can’t bring myself to say her name.
Not when it’s my brat sister’s tagalong from half a lifetime ago and I can’t process any of this being real.
“Frankly, I met with your grandfather regularly before he died. I can assure you, he was just as sharp as ever.” Miss Wilkes taps a few keys on her keyboard. “When he realized how little time he had left, he met with several people, and all of them would agree he was mentally sound.”
“Then what the hell was he thinking?” I demand. “Marrying fucking Hattie ?”
Out of everyone Gramps could have chosen, Harriet Sage makes the least sense.
I lied when I said I didn’t know her.
I do.
Barely.
In another life, I did.
Our families still know each other, certainly, and she’s still Margot’s sidekick. But we haven’t interacted in years.
I can’t even remember the last time I saw her.
Back when we were kids, she was my sister’s shadow, small and nervous and quiet.
Meek, really, totally not the type of woman that interests me.
We rarely spoke back then unless I wanted to mess with her like the bad-tempered punk I was. We definitely don’t now.
So why the fuck does Gramps want me to marry a girl I don’t know?
It would have made slightly more sense if the woman he’d specified was a mover and shaker in money. The daughter of a rival business, maybe.
Those sorts of arranged marriages still happen, though everyone pretends it’s for love for the sake of the press.
But Hattie?
Make it make sense.
If the old man wanted me married off, he could’ve had the decency to let me choose a wife.
Is this some twisted punishment?
That’s the only thing I can think of. Delayed judgment for what happened before, the way my life was held together by a thread in my grandfather’s bony fingers.
Hattie has nothing to do with me.
She never has, beyond being my sister’s friend. I can’t imagine she’ll want to change that when she remembers my attitude.
My gaze snaps back to Miss Wilkes. I heave out a sigh.
“Very well,” I say crisply. “Working under the assumption that my grandfather was mentally sound, there must be a reason. A method to his madness. An explanation.”
A hint of consternation enters Wilkes’ expression. It’s gone a second later, but it’s unnerving all the same.
“It’s not madness, Mr. Blackthorn,” she says.
“Then what would you call it? Me, married to Hattie Sage? All to get my inheritance, which should be mine by default.”
Normally, my parents would’ve been next in line to control the company, but they don’t do business.
Plus, relations have been strained with them and Gramps for as long as I can remember. They showed zero interest in Blackthorn Holdings as long as the cash from Mom’s trust kept flowing.
Gramps always tried to involve me in the empire, but until recently, I balked.
Let them stay back in New York, fussing over how little he left them, while I’m over here trying to figure out what to do with an inheritance I never asked for and a marriage I don’t want just to get it.
“Marriage stipulations in wills aren’t as uncommon as you may think,” Miss Wilkes says. “Yours isn’t the first case I’ve handled.”
“And in all cases, it’s been upheld?”
“In Maine, yes. Almost all.”
“Almost?”
“Mr. Blackthorn.” She sighs. “There’s no precedent for the marriage clause to be overturned in this case. Must I keep repeating myself?”
She says that now, but I’m going to recruit an army of lawyers and pull this damn will apart piece by piece.
Then we’ll see if she sings a different tune.
I drop into the seat in front of her desk, rubbing my fingers along the leather arms absently.
“Surely, you can agree it doesn’t make sense.” I drop my voice. “I’m not old. Hattie doesn’t know me.”
How many years has it been?
Last time I saw her, she barely looked at me.
I’ll admit, I deserved it.
I was a raging little asshole to her when we were kids. All the more reason this marriage could be fatal.
“What’s the reason?” I press. “You saw him before he died. You knew his thinking, especially with estate planning.”
She shrugs. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“What?”