The Will

The Reading II

Ayla POV

If you're watching this, that means I'm dead.

The words didn't register immediately.

They entered my ears but refused to become real, hovering somewhere just beyond comprehension.

For a second, I convinced myself I had misheard him.

Then he spoke again.

Murdered.

The room tilted.

I gripped the edge of my chair so hard my fingers ached.

No. No, that wasn't possible.

I had spent twenty-three years imagining this moment.

Not this exact moment, obviously. Not a ballroom. Not a projection screen.

But the meeting.

The first conversation. The first look. All those years, I had built it up in my head. Maybe he would apologize. Maybe he would explain. Maybe he would tell me he had thought about me, too. Maybe he would say my name.

Instead, I got a recording.

A recording of a dead man.

My father.

Dead.

The word echoed through my head, stripping away every other thought.

Dead meant there would be no explanation.

No awkward first lunch. No phone calls. No birthdays. No chance to ask why. No chance to hear him answer.

A memory surfaced without permission.

I was eight years old, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor with my laptop balanced on my knees. Mom was working a double shift, and I was supposed to be asleep.

Instead, I searched his name online.

Keenan Ashwood.

Thousands of results.

Photos of charity galas and ribbon cuttings and magazine covers.

In every picture, he looked so alive.

So real.

I remember staring at his face and wondering whether he ever wondered about mine.

Now I knew the answer didn't matter.

Because whatever it was, I would never hear it from him.

The room around me dissolved into muffled noise.

His voice continued speaking from the screen, but the words lost meaning. Something about an inheritance. About conditions. About staying on the estate.

The details slipped past me like water through open hands.

All I could hear was dead.

All I could think was too late.

I swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, willing myself not to cry in front of strangers.

The blonde woman beside me scribbled something into a notebook.

Nobody looked happy.

Nobody looked relieved.

Just shocked.

Like me, I guess. Only I doubted any of them had spent their entire lives waiting for the person on that screen to notice they existed.

I lowered my eyes to my hands.

The polish on my Mary Janes had scuffed during the drive over. I traced my thumbnail along the frayed hem of my dress. I had spent an hour getting ready. Changed outfits three times. Rebraided my hair twice. Polished my shoes.

All because some small, stupid part of me had wanted to make a good first impression.

I almost laughed.

Instead, my vision blurred.

My father had finally reached out to me.

And I had arrived too late.