1
EMMY
I'd rather be anywhere but here.
I sit rigid in the conference room chair, eyes fixed on the brooch pinned to my cardigan—Violet's vintage Chanel, gold and art deco with a single pearl accent. The metal warms against my skin, a talisman keeping me from shattering. Three weeks since the funeral, and this—this formal reading—makes her death legally final.
I hate it so much.
My throat tightens. The space behind my eyes burns. I press my thumb against the brooch's edge, focusing on the slight discomfort rather than the hollow ache in my chest.
Everything about Morrison & Hale screams cold. The conference table—glass and chrome, wiped spotless. Leather chairs that probably get replaced every few months. Abstract art on the walls, all sharp angles and muted colors. Those pieces most likely cost north of five million, and let's be honest, I can do a much better job with my eyes closed. Floor-to-ceiling windowsframe the city like a postcard, steel and glass stretching into the gray sky.
Nothing like Violet's library, with its worn Queen Anne chairs and stained glass, books stacked in perfect disarray, scents of paper and lemon polish and time. It was my grandmother's pride and joy.
My mother, Victoria, sits beside me, spine straight, ankles crossed, face arranged in practiced grief—though her eyes dart occasionally to the papers across the table, already calculating figures.
Marcus, my brother, squeezes my hand when I touch the brooch again. My anchor in the storm.
Meanwhile, Adrian Hale sits across from us, organizing documents with maddening precision. I notice his hands first—long fingers aligning papers, checking page numbers, no wedding ring. The charcoal suit fits his broad shoulders to a tee, a crisp white shirt contrasting his olive skin. His jaw could cut glass, his dark hair expertly styled, and when he glances up, those gray-blue eyes scan us with detachment before returning to his papers.
Of course, he's unfairly attractive. Smart and successful and looks like that.
The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
At least he has the personality of a dried coconut husk, I think. He probably doesn't even laugh or smile because he thinks those things are beneath him.
Don't look at his hands again. That's twice now. Stop it.
I focus instead on hating his perfectionism—the way he squares the documents at perfect right angles, the almost imperceptible adjustment of his silver cufflinks.
This is our fourth meeting. Three times were during probate, with each interaction more antagonistic than the last. He embodies everything I despise: corporate, emotionally locked, conventional. I represent everything that probably irritates him: chaotic, emotional, creative.
Whatever. It's not like I'm marrying the guy.
"In the matter of the Last Will and Testament of Violet Hartford Blake..."
Adrian's voice fills the room—deep, measured, professional. I really hate how his baritone feels like a caress on my skin. Of all the inappropriate places to notice. In my defense, I already noticed these things the first time I saw him. With every meeting, however, he only becomes harder and harder to ignore.
Stop listening to HOW he talks. Listen to WHAT he's saying.
I wonder if he ever sounds different, relaxed, warm—but I instantly shut that thought down.
"To the following literacy charities, I bequeath the sum of five hundred thousand dollars, to be divided equally..."
Adrian continues reading standard bequests.
My fingers twist Violet's brooch as impatience builds with each bequest. I want this over with.
Victoria shifts beside me, checking her watch. Marcus's thumb rubs my knuckles in silent comfort. Adrian turns a page, thepaper crisp in the silence. I count ceiling tiles—sixteen visible from my chair.
"To my beloved granddaughter, Emerson Blake..."
I sit straighter, hands stilling in my lap. Adrian's voice continues, steady and controlled.
"...I leave my estate, including the Victorian mansion, five acres of surrounding property, and the entire contents therein, most notably my library collection comprising over fifty thousand volumes."
Adrian looks up. "The library includes first editions of Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' from 1813, F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby' from 1925, Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises' from 1926, and Charles Dickens' 'A Tale of Two Cities' from 1859, among others. The estate has been appraised at eight million dollars, with the library collection valued at approximately twelve million."
