"It's kept me alive longer than most."
A knock on the window makes us both tense. Blake's hand moves toward his jacket, then stills when he sees who it is.
A woman. Tall, elegant, with Blake's dark hair and the kind of sharp, exhausted beauty that comes from fighting battles with people who probably underestimate her on a regular basis. She's wearing a cashmere coat over what looks like business attire, carrying a leather briefcase that probably costs more than my car.
Blake unlocks the doors.
She slides into the backseat with the efficiency of someone who's done this before—late-night meetings, secret briefings, conversations that can't happen in places with surveillance.
"Talia Delano," she says, extending a hand. "Family attorney, professional cleaner, and Blake's favorite sibling."
I shake her hand. Her grip is firm, assessing. "Peyton Quinn. Apparently, I'm a Kingsley."
"Apparently, you're the Kingsley." Talia opens her briefcase, pulls out a folder thick with documents. "Which makes you either the most valuable person in Wintervale or the most endangered. Possibly both."
"I'm voting both," I say.
"Smart girl." She hands me the folder. "This is everything I could pull on short notice. Copies of the Kingsley trust documents, the bloodline clause, verification requirements, and timeline for activation. It's not complete, half of this is sealed tighter than classified government intel, but it's enough to understand what you're up against."
I open the folder. Legal documents swim before my eyes. There are dense paragraphs of ‘whereas’ and ‘hereto,’ signatures and seals, the architecture of power built long ago onto paper.
But one section is highlighted in yellow.
Article VII, Section 3: Dormant Heir Clause
In the event that a direct bloodline descendant of Edmund Charles Kingsley appears and provides genetic verification during the week of Christmas celebration, said descendant shall be granted proxy authority over...
The list goes on. And on.
Votes. Assets. Board positions. Control over foundations, real estate, investment portfolios.
Billions. With a B.
"Holy shit," I breathe.
"That's the technical legal term," Talia says dryly. "The activation window opens December 23rd and closes December 31st. Today is the 22nd. Which means?—"
"Tomorrow." My hands are shaking. I force them still. "Tomorrow I become valuable."
"Tomorrow you become a target," Blake corrects. "You already are one. Tomorrow it just gets official."
“Why this timeline? What the hell was his fixation with Christmas?” I say out loud.
“The hell if I know. Old rich men are funny like that.” Talia continues. “If I may ask, Peyton, how much do you know about life here in Wintervale?”
“I know that my parents met at a political dinner in Wintervale when my father was first starting out in politics. My mother had a deep love for the town, so when they married, they made sure to keep a small house here. That’s why we spent most of the year in DC because of his work, but the majority of our summers here.”
“Ah, so you’re understanding of the town politics here is from whatever your father has told you.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, let me school you. There are three factions that want control of you. The Kingsley family itself, specifically Edmund's current heirs, who don't want their inheritance diluted. The Hollow Club hardliners, who want to use your proxy votes to swing development deals. And various independents who see you as either a threat to eliminate or an asset to acquire."
"And the Delanos?" I ask. "Which faction are they?"
"Split." Talia glances at Blake. "Silas wants you controllable. Nonno wants you alive but neutralized. And Blake..."
She trails off, looking at her brother with something complicated in her expression—concern, maybe, or warning.
