Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Blythe
It takes a week for Atlas’s lawyer to make it to Birchwood Springs.
A week of waiting, knowing what’s coming, knowing I’m about to erase the last piece of the girl I used to be.
Fitzhenry Everhart arrives with the paperwork to change my name, pushing everything through faster than the law should allow—but money bends rules, and Atlas made sure I wouldn’t have to wait.
Soon, Blythe Timberbridge will be real, and Henrietta will be nothing more than ink on forgotten documents.
It’ll take a little time, but that’s all I need to access my inheritance.
Oh, yes. I’m a very wealthy woman now.
Winston Reginald Worthington IV was so arrogant, so untouchable in his own mind, that he never considered he’d stop breathing one day.
No will. No instructions.
No contingency plan for a world without him in it.
Because he believed he was eternal.
And now? Henrietta Worthington is the sole heir to his estate.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
I don’t want a single cent of his blood money.
But Atlas—stubborn, infuriatingly practical Atlas—convinced me to set up a trust for our future kids.
Just enough to cover college, to make sure they never struggle.
Not that we won’t work hard to give them everything they need, but it’s good to cover our bases.
The rest?
It’s going where it should have gone a long time ago.
A charity. A nonprofit I’m creating for women like me.
For children like the Timberbridge brothers—kids who grew up afraid of the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
I sit at the shop’s counter, flipping through the thick stack of legal papers as Fitzhenry lays everything out in front of me.
His suit is crisp, his tie perfect, his voice clipped and efficient.
But for all his polished professionalism, he curses like a drunken sailor.
According to Atlas, he always does, especially when dealing with legal messes like this.
“This first document,” Fitzhenry says, sliding a paper toward me, “is your official request for a name change. Once processed, it will legally recognize you as Blythe Timberbridge.”
I grab the pen and sign.
No hesitation.
Henrietta Worthington—the name my parents chose to fit into their perfect, curated world—is now nothing more than a technicality.
Fitzhenry nods, flipping to the next page.
“And this grants me power of attorney to handle the fucking inheritance on your behalf. No one will know where you are. The media will keep mourning the asshole you were attached to, and you’ll be free to disappear from that life. I’ll ensure the assets are liquidated and transferred per your instructions.”
I hesitate for the briefest second.
Taking anything from Winston makes my skin crawl.
Atlas steps behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders.
Warm. Solid.
“It’s just a tool, baby,” he murmurs.
“Take it and make something good out of it.”
I exhale slowly.
He’s right.
Winston used money to control people.
To cage them.
I’m using it to set people free.
I sign.
Fitzhenry slides the last document forward.
“This final form transfers a portion of the inheritance into a trust for your future children and formally allocates the remaining funds to your charity.” He lifts a brow.
“It’s a rare case, I must say. Most people in your position wouldn’t be so—altruistic.”
I scoff.
“That money was built on corruption and suffering. If I left it to rot in some account, I’d be no better than him.”
Fitzhenry dips his chin, seemingly satisfied.
“Then I’ll file everything today. Expect confirmation within the next few weeks.”
Atlas squeezes my shoulders, then presses a kiss to my temple.
I lean into him, my body exhaling tension I didn’t realize I was still holding.
It’s done.
Henrietta Worthington is nothing but a footnote now.
Blythe?
She’s real.
And she’s never looking back.
I stare at the name on the line, the one I just signed in clean, confident letters.
Blythe Timberbridge.
Not Henrietta. Not Worthington.
Just me.
Fitzhenry collects the documents and stands, sliding the finalized copies across the desk.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Timberbridge.”
“Thank you for everything,” I say and wave as he leaves the shop.
He leans in slightly, voice low, just for me.
“Should I start calling you Mrs. Timberbridge every time I make you moan?”
Heat shoots down my spine.
My face flames.
I pinch his thigh under the desk, whispering back, “If you want me to start calling you Mr. Timberbridge, sure.”
Atlas grins, all trouble, but his eyes say something deeper.
Pride.
Possession.
Love.
And maybe that’s why my breath catches when I glance down at the paper one last time.
Because this isn’t just a name.
This is ours now.
Not something temporary.
Not a shield to keep me safe. This is forever.