The Will

Settling IV

Ayla POV

I followed Mr. Bennett through the east wing in a daze.

The conversation from dinner blurred together behind me.

Something about breakfast at seven.

Keys. Schedules. Rules.

I nodded at all the appropriate moments without actually hearing a word he said.

My father was dead.

Everything else felt irrelevant.

Mr. Bennett stopped outside a door and handed me a key."Miss Easton." The metal felt cold against my palm. "Please let us know if you require anything."

Anything. The word almost made me laugh. There was exactly one thing I needed. One thing I'd needed my entire life. And nobody in this house could give it to me. Not anymore.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Then I just stood there. The room was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. A four-poster bed draped in cream-colored linen. A fireplace. A sitting area with soft, purple velvet chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a hedge maze. Fresh flowers arranged beside a bowl of fruit.

The bathroom was larger than my bedroom back home.

Home.

The apartment above the laundromat. The pipes that rattled every winter. The kitchen table Mom and I bought secondhand for cheap because one of the legs was shorter than the others. The couch with the spring that poked through the cushions.

I thought about Mom working double shifts. About the nights she skipped dinner because she claimed she'd already eaten at work. About the years she spent pretending we were fine because she didn't want me to worry.

And all this time, my father lived here. Not in a house. Not even in a mansion.

In an entire world.

A world with libraries and lakes and rose gardens and chandeliers bigger than my apartment. A world where he could have changed everything for us without even noticing the money was gone.

The grief inside me twisted. Hardened. Became something hotter.

Anger.

How dare he. How dare he invite me here now. How dare he wait until he was dead. How dare he leave me with questions nobody could answer.

Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of wondering what was wrong with me. Twenty-three years of imagining excuses for a man who never bothered to call.

Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe he didn't know how to reach out. Maybe he thought it would make my life harder.

Lies. All of them.

Because people made time for the things they cared about. And if he'd cared, he would have found a way.

I looked around the room again. At the antique furniture. The silk curtains. The oil paintings.

Everything I could have had. Everything Mom deserved. Everything he chose not to give us.

My eyes landed on a porcelain lamp beside the bed. Before I could think better of it, I crossed the room and grabbed it.

Heavy. Cold. Breakable.

Good.

For one reckless second, I wanted to throw it. To hear something shatter. To make this place hurt the way I hurt.

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

I froze.

The lamp still clutched in my hands.

Another knock.

"Ayla?"

A man's voice. Warm. Familiar. Gunnar.

I closed my eyes. Slowly set the lamp back on the table. Then I wiped at my face with the heel of my hand and crossed the room to answer the door.