My stomach drops. Not from surprise but confirmation.
“You could have led with that,” I say.
“Where would the fun be in that?” he smirks, and it’s the first time I’ve felt levity from him tonight, but nothing about this shit is funny.
“What kind of clause?"
"The kind that activates when a verified descendant appears during Christmas week. Proxy votes. Board seats. Control over assets worth more than most countries' GDP." He pauses. "You're the heir they've been trying to erase."
The words land like stones in dark water—heavy, sinking, pulling everything down with them.
I’m a Kingsley?
Now it all makes sense. My mother spent her last months chasing proof of a bloodline she'd been denied her whole life. Proof that meant power. Meant inheritance. A new reality that would shake her life to the core. Our lives.
“How did this happen?”
“You want more?”
“I want everything.”
“From what I know, your maternal grandmother was Catherine Kingsley. She was disowned by her parents because she married a civil rights activist, which, you can imagine, was a big no-no in 1960s Wintervale. She took her married name, Morrison, which became your mother’s name and then yours. I guess the Kingsley name became a distant and never discussed subject, which is why your mother probably never knew.”
So they cast out my grandmother for marrying wrong, loving wrong, choosing her own life over their legacy. And when my mother found out, they killed her for it? My poor Mama.
"They murdered my mother." My voice comes out steady despite the rage burning through my chest. "Because she was going to claim what was hers."
"Probably." Blake doesn't soften it. Doesn't apologize for the brutality of the truth. "And now you're the loose end. If you die, the clause never triggers. But if you sign over power of attorney to the right people, they control your votes without the mess of making you disappear. Either way, you're currency."
"And your uncle? Silas? What does he want?"
"To keep you alive and unsigned long enough to prevent his rivals from consolidating Kingsley control. He needs you breathing, but not powerful. Useful but not dangerous."
“So a pawn.”
Blake's jaw tightens. "He sent me because I'm good at keeping people alive who everyone else wants dead. And because he thinks I owe him."
"Do you?"
"No." The word is flat, final. "I burned that debt six years ago. Along with everything else."
My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.
Unknown Number: Your father's worried. Come back to the gala. We can talk about this reasonably.
Unknown Number: Running makes it worse, Peyton. You know that.
Unknown Number: Blake Delano is not your friend. He's a weapon. And weapons don't choose their targets.
I show him the screen.
Blake reads the messages, expression darkening. "Domenic. He's persistent."
"Is he right?" I ask. "Are you a weapon?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No false modesty. "But weapons can choose when to misfire."
"That's a hell of a philosophy."
