Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
When I wake, the light outside is pale and muted. My head aches, and a scratch in my throat tells me I'm dehydrated.
I sit up slowly, muscles stiff, mind still fogged with exhaustion. Slowly, I realize there’s movement downstairs.
I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps, the murmur of voices, and then, a knock at my bedroom door.
“Miss Huntington-Russell?”
One of the house staff says softly, voice careful, professional. “There’s a lawyer here to see you.”
My pulse quickens, starting slow and then becoming erratic. The lawyer must be here to discuss my father’s estate. My brothers’ estate. My estate.
The thought of it twists something deep inside me.
Hayden isn’t here. I almost say I’ll wait for him, but the words don’t make it past my lips.
“Let them in,” I say instead, voice steadier than I feel.
I force myself to stand and pull on fresh clothes. Something so normal, like I haven’t spent the last twelve hours drowning in my own mind.
When I enter the sitting room, there's an older and graying man already waiting.
He stands when I walk in, offering me a thin, professional smile.
“Miss Huntington-Russell,” he greets, dipping his head. “I apologize for the early hour, but there are matters that require your immediate attention.”
I nod, motioning for him to sit. I settle into the large chair across from him and help myself to the coffee service already laid out.
“Who sent you?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow as I sip my coffee.
“I represent the firm handling your father’s estate,” he says smoothly. “And your brothers’.”
The air in the room tightens.
“There are details that must be addressed. Transfers, inheritance, legalities.” He pauses, then folds his hands over his briefcase. “And, of course, there is the matter of your uncle.”
My stomach drops.
“My uncle,” I repeat, voice flat.
“Yes,” the lawyer says. “He has, of course, made his claim.”
His claim.
I already know what that means. I already know what he’s going to say next, but I ask anyway.
“And what, exactly, is he claiming?”
The lawyer meets my gaze, expression somber.
“Everything.”
I stand perfectly still, not even blinking. The weight of the word settles over me, heavy and suffocating.
The lawyer clears his throat and straightens slightly. “However, the situation is…complicated.”
I narrow my eyes. “Complicated how?”
He flips open his briefcase and retrieves a folder. “Your father’s will was structured in a way that assumed a particular chain of succession. The estate was meant to pass to your uncle, if, and only if, your brothers were still alive at the time of your father’s death.”
I stare at him. “But they’re not.”
“No,” the lawyer agrees. “They’re not.” He taps the folder lightly. “And because of that, the clause no longer applies.”
A strange silence stretches between us. I don’t speak. I can’t. My mind is still trying to piece everything together.
“What does that mean?” I ask finally.
The lawyer exhales through his nose, flipping through the documents.
“It means, Miss Huntington-Russell, that by the precise wording of the will, your uncle was only ever the contingent beneficiary in the event your father passed while his sons were still alive. That did not happen. An extremely unusual circumstance, certainly one your father did not anticipate, but legally speaking…” he slides a document toward me. “The estate is yours.”
I don’t reach for it.
"What exactly does that include?" I ask, my voice quieter now.
The lawyer flips through his paperwork. "The Huntington-Russell estate, as well as the financial portfolios and business interests tied to it.
Several properties, your father owned three outside the primary estate.
One in Manhattan, a townhouse in London, and a villa in the south of France.
Additionally, there are offshore accounts, a collection of trusts, and stock holdings across multiple corporations," he pauses. "It’s a vast portfolio."
I grip the arm of the chair, my nails pressing into the fabric.
"But there’s a problem," he continues. "Your uncle has formally contested the transfer. While his claim is being investigated, all assets are frozen."
I inhale sharply. "For how long?"
"That depends on how long it takes to settle the matter. But we need to meet and discuss options," he closes the folder. "I’ve arranged a meeting between you, your uncle, and I at our firm’s offices."
"When?"
"Two days from now. Ten o’clock in the morning." He watches me carefully. "Does that work for you?"
Hayden won't let me leave this house, but I agree anyway, knowing I don’t have any choice but to figure out how to make the meeting.
I nod. "Yes."
He stands, smoothing out his jacket. "Then I’ll see you there, Miss Huntington-Russell."
Without another word, he turns and leaves.
For a moment, I’m halted by the idea of everything being mine.
My father’s estate. My family’s wealth, their Legacy, their power.
My uncle will be furious.
And I—
I don’t know what to do with any of it.
I force myself to stand after the lawyer leaves.
My body feels slow, like I’m moving through sludge, but my mind is awake now, sharpening around the details.
I make my way across the great hall, the scent of coffee curling through the air.
The staff must have already prepared breakfast, but I don’t want to sit in the dining room, don’t want the weight of formality pressing down on me.
Instead, I step into the kitchen, where one of the maids is quietly pouring coffee into delicate porcelain cups. She notices me and hesitates.
“Miss Huntington-Russell, would you like a full breakfast?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Just coffee.”
She nods, handing me a cup. I take it with both hands, letting the warmth seep into my skin and ground me.
I take a slow sip and lean against the marble counter, my thoughts circling the meeting in two days.
Hayden will surely refuse to let me go. He will tell me it isn’t safe, that I don’t need to be involved, and that the lawyers can handle it without me.
Or some other grunt of an excuse thrown at me without emotion. But I don’t care.
I need to be there.
I need to look my uncle in the eye, to see the fury on his face when he realizes he has no control, no claim, nothing left to leech off of.
Hayden thinks he can keep me here, but he’s wrong. I will convince him to let me go.
And if he refuses?
I take another sip of coffee, staring into the dark liquid.
Hayden Herron
The stone beneath my feet is slick with moisture, the damp of the mausoleum settled into my bones like a second skin.
The air is thick, stale, weighed down with the scent of burning wax.
The meeting had stretched through the night, the Chairman’s voice cutting through the dark like a blade, measured and pointed.
Archibald didn't show, so the work is mine alone.
I push open the heavy iron doors and step into the weak dawn light, the sky painted in washed-out shades of gray and blue. The chill clings to my skin, but I don’t acknowledge it. I can still hear the last words spoken to me before I left the chamber, weighty and unmistakable:
“There is information out there. We need it.”
They wouldn’t have called me here just for scraps, not for whispers or rumors. No, this was something real, a tangible secret buried where only the desperate or the reckless would dare to look. And now that I know it involves Martine, my interest is no longer just an obligation; it’s personal.
I exhale sharply, shoving my hands into the pockets of my coat. I have no patience for another errand, but I don’t have a choice. The Society wants this information, and I want to know why Martine is tangled in it.
There’s someone in a nearby town who might be able to help. A name slipped to me before I left—no guarantees, no promises, just another lead to chase down.
I grit my teeth and start walking toward my car, my mind already pulling apart the possibilities.
Another dead end, another piece of the puzzle, or something worse?
I intend to find out.
The drive is quiet. The low hum of the engine, the occasional flicker of headlights against empty road signs.
The town is unremarkable, the kind of place people pass through without a second thought.
Small brick buildings, a single gas station still flickering with neon light.
It’s early enough that the streets are empty, the world still caught in the lull between night and morning.
I park outside a rundown apartment building, the kind where the paint peels from the walls and the stairwell smells like old cigarettes. The name I was given matches the unit number scrawled on the rusted mailbox: third floor, second door on the left.
I take the stairs two at a time; my patience is already running thin.
When I reach the door, I knock. Hard. The sound echoes through the hall.
Nothing.
I knock again. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
I press my ear to the door. No movement, no shifting weight on the other side. Either they aren’t home, or they’re pretending not to be.
I don’t have time for games.
I step back and drive my boot into the door just below the handle. The wood splinters with a sharp crack as the frame gives way, swinging open violently. Dust swirls in the stale air inside.
The place is disgusting. The carpet is stained, with dark blotches soaked into the fabric that I don’t want to think about.
The walls are yellowed, peeling from years of neglect, and the smell of rotting food, sweat, and chemicals clings to every surface.
Bottles litter the coffee table, crushed cigarette butts spilling from an overflowing ashtray.
In the far corner of the room, the couch is buried under clothes, newspapers, and a pile of used needles.
I step further inside, my foot knocking into an empty beer can. It rolls, bumping against the frame of a doorway leading to what I assume is the bedroom.