She’s fine, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. She’s grief-stricken, but she’s all right. Her condition is manageable with proper care. I’ve done everything to give her a normal life. The best doctors, ironclad privacy, top-notch treatment plans. Geoffroy was fully on board.
Millie loved him and Julian dearly.
What a shame her father was undeserving of her devotion! I’ll never tell her that, of course. What good would that do? I want her to remain proud of him and of her heritage. Not tomention if I told her Geoffroy wasn’t a good man, I’d have to explain why. And that is out of the question.
As for Julian… Shallow and petty as he was, he doted on his little half sister. He was almost my age, but he used to play with Millie the way a young father would—shoulder rides, hide-and-seek, tag… Geoffroy never did that.
She’ll miss Julian keenly. And I’ll miss him, too, on her behalf.
Pauline sits perfectly straight on my other side with pen in hand and notepad open. Alex’s lawyer, Derek, leans back in his chair with one ankle casually resting on his knee. Should I interpret it as he doesn’t expect to hear anything worthy of noting down?
That’s a good sign, right?
And Alex… Alex is stone. Not a muscle moves. No sign of life, except for subtle flex of his jaw. He gazes at Maître Duret with a vaguely bored look on his face. I imagine Alex wearing that precise look when forced to attend a lecture by a fellow faculty member he considers too inferior, which is likely 99 percent of his colleagues.
Duret clears his throat and opens a folder.
My heart speeds up.
“I appreciate you all being here on such short notice,” he begins, voice thinner now. “Before we begin, I need to state?—”
From the corner of my eye, I see Brigitte shifting. She takes a swig from her glass and shoots a glance at Millie. Then at Alex. At Millie again. At Alex again. Then at me.
I meet her eyes, and she offers a smile that’s supposed to be reassuring. But it’s lopsided and utterly unconvincing.
Why is she so nervous?
The only reason Maître Duret invited Alex to the reading was to ensure protocol was followed. There’s no way Geoffroy bequeathed him more than some worthless trinket. I’m certainof it. I haven’t seen his will, but he’s spoken about it on several occasions, in Julian’s presence.
Duret fidgets with a binder in his hands. “So. I… Um… There is no will.”
Silence.
Millie looks up at me. I freeze.
Pauline lowers her pen slowly. “Excuse me?”
“What did you say?” Brigitte asks the notary, her voice shaking.
Duret swallows. “Geoffroy Castellane, twenty-eighth Duke of Rohinn, your son, my lady, and”—he turns to me—“your husband, Your Grace, did not file a will.”
“That’s not possible,” I hear myself say.
“With respect, Maître Duret,” Pauline intervenes, “just because he didn’t file one with you doesn’t mean he didn’t at all. He must’ve used another notary. Probably a royal one in Pombrio.”
Duret bristles. “I checked with every registry, Maître Falkenrath. Both local and royal. There is no legal testament on record.”
Pauline opens her mouth to argue, then shuts it without a word. She looks stunned. So does everyone else.
Duret flips open his binder, head wobbling. “I’ve been reminding him for years…”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed.This can’t be true. Please, this can’t be happening!
When I open my eyes, Duret is displaying the contents of the binder. “I have all the correspondence here. Emails. Letters. Follow-ups. He kept saying he would address it soon. That it was a priority. But…” He looks up at me. “He never did.”
I shake my head. “No. He told me he’d done it. You must check again. There must be a will.”
“Have you seen it, or a copy of it, Your Grace?” he asks.
