Gerald Whitmore had been calling for three months.
I'd ignored every message. Attorneys called when they wanted money or signatures or both. My father had been dead for six years. Whatever estate business remained, I'd assumed Sienna handled it.
But after reading those messages—after learning what Sienna was—I called him back.
He answered on the first ring.
"Ms. Parker. Thank God. I was beginning to think you'd never—"
"What do you need to tell me?"
A pause. Then his voice dropped. "Not over the phone. Can you come to my office?"
"When?"
"Whenever you're ready. I've been ready for years."
I hung up and stared at my calendar. The gala was seventeen days away.
"Next Tuesday," I texted him. "Two o'clock."
His reply came immediately. "I'll be here."
I didn't tell Maisie. I didn't tell anyone.
Some things you had to walk into alone.
---
The charity gala was Saturday night. Black tie. Midtown ballroom. Half my board would be there.
Kash wore the tuxedo I'd bought him. He looked perfect. He always did.
In the car, he took my hand. "You nervous?"
"Should I be?"
"You're Serenity Parker. You don't get nervous."
I smiled. Let him kiss my knuckles.
Inside, he worked the room like he'd been born to it. Shook hands with my CFO. Laughed at the right jokes. Asked thoughtful questions about quarterly projections. Several people told me later how lucky I was.
I watched him charm a venture capitalist I'd been courting for months. Watched him tilt his head just so, the way he did when he wanted someone to feel heard. The man ate it up.
"Your boyfriend's a natural," the VC said to me later. "You should bring him to the anniversary gala."
"I plan to," I said.
Kash found me near the bar afterward. Slipped his arm around my waist. "You okay? You seem tired."
"Long week."
"Let me take care of you when we get home."
He did.
He ran a bath. Added the lavender oil I kept under the sink. Lit candles. Kissed my forehead and told me to take my time.
I sank into the water and closed my eyes.
The mirror across from the tub had a camera behind it. Upper right corner. The contractor had mapped it precisely.
I let my head fall back against the porcelain. Let my face go soft. I thought about my father. About the will. About the questions I'd been asking that had made Sienna nervous enough to do this.
I let a small smile touch my lips. The kind of smile a woman makes when she thinks she's alone. When she thinks she's safe.
When she trusts completely.
Later, in bed, Kash pulled me close. "Better?"
"Much better. Thank you."
His hand traced lazy patterns on my shoulder. "I love taking care of you."
"I know you do."
I fell asleep in his arms. Or I pretended to.
The next morning, I checked the intercepted messages while he was in the shower.
*"She's exhausted. Letting her guard down more. Got great footage last night. She smiled at something—looked almost sad. Sienna, I think she's starting to suspect her family stuff isn't what she thought."*
Sienna's reply came fast.
*"Good. Let her spiral. Vulnerable is exactly where we need her."*
I set the phone down. Poured coffee. Made toast.
Kash came out in a towel, hair dripping. He kissed my neck. "Morning."
"Morning."
He didn't notice my hands were steady.
---
Tuesday arrived cold and gray. I told Kash I had back-to-back meetings. He offered to bring me lunch. I kissed him and said I'd be fine.
Gerald Whitmore's office was in a building older than most of the skyscrapers around it. Wood paneling. Leather chairs. The kind of place that dealt in old money and older secrets.
He stood when I entered. Older than I remembered. Thinner.
"Ms. Parker. Thank you for coming."
I sat. "You said it was about my father's will."
"In a manner of speaking." He opened a drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope. Cream-colored. Expensive paper. My father's handwriting across the front.
*To be opened only by Serenity. Only if she asks.*
"He left this with me eighteen years ago," Whitmore said quietly. "With very specific instructions. If you ever came to me with questions about the will, or about your mother, or about why certain things were the way they were—I was to give you this."
I took the envelope. It was heavier than it looked.
"You've been asking questions," he said. "About why your stepmother wasn't named in the estate. About inconsistencies in the family records."
I had been. Quietly. Carefully. Months ago, before any of this started.
"Open it," he said.
I broke the seal.
Inside was a small key. Safe deposit box key. And a single piece of paper.
My father's handwriting. Neat and precise.
*Your mother's name was Audrey. I'm sorry I couldn't protect either of you.*
I read it twice. Three times.
The room was very quiet.
"There's a box," Whitmore said. "At First National. He set it up in your name years ago. That key will open it."
I folded the paper. Slipped it and the key into my purse.
"Thank you, Mr. Whitmore."
He studied me. "Are you all right?"
I stood. Smoothed my skirt. "I'm fine."
He didn't look convinced. But he didn't stop me.
I walked out into the cold. Stood on the sidewalk. Watched traffic blur past.
Your mother's name was Audrey.
Not Sienna.
Audrey.
I pulled out my phone. Stared at the screen.
Then I put it away and started walking.
I had a safe deposit box to open.
And sixteen days until the gala.
