The Will

Summons I

AYLA POV - Summons I

The man appeared while I was staring into my coffee. One second the chair across from me was empty. The next, a shadow fell across the table.

I looked up.

He was tall, maybe six feet, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His silver hair was cut short, his expression unreadable. He stood perfectly still, one hand resting behind his back.

For a moment I thought he had mistaken me for someone else. Then he placed an envelope on the table.

Not dropped.

Not slid.

Placed.

Deliberately.

T

he cream-colored paper looked expensive enough to belong in a museum. Gold embossing framed the edges. A dark crimson wax seal held the flap closed.

My stomach tightened. I knew that crest. Everyone in New Hampshire knew that crest.

The Ashwood family insignia: a stag standing beneath a sprawling oak tree.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

"Can I help you?"

The man didn't answer. His gaze shifted briefly to the envelope.

Waiting.

I glanced around the coffee shop. Nobody seemed to notice. Mrs. Donnelly was still arguing with the cashier about oat milk. Two high school kids sat hunched over a la op in the corner. The world continued as normal.

Meanwhile a stranger had just handed me an envelope stamped with the name that had haunted my entire life.

I looked back at him.

"Who sent this?"

Nothing. Not even a blink. My pulse began to thud in my ears.

Slowly, I reached for the envelope. The paper felt thick beneath my fingers. The wax seal cracked with a sharp snap. Something about the sound made my chest tighten.

Inside was a single folded letter.

I unfolded it. Slowly.

The first line nearly stopped my heart.

Miss Ayla Easton,

You are hereby summoned to Ashwood Estate.

I read the sentence twice. Then a third time.

My eyes skimmed the rest.

A date.

A time.

An address.

Instructions to tell no one.

At the bottom sat a signature. Not handwritten. Printed.

Keenan Ashwood

The air left my lungs. My vision blurred. I read the name again, as if perhaps I had got it wrong the first time.

Keenan Ashwood

The billionaire. The recluse. The man my mother had forbidden me from contacting. The man whose face I'd searched online more times than I could count. The man who had never once acknowledged I existed.

A cold knot formed in my stomach. For twenty-three years, silence. And now this. No explanation. No apology.

Just a summons. As if I were an employee being called into a meeting.

I became aware of the man still standing beside the table. Watching. Waiting. I looked up.

"Why?"

The word escaped before I could stop it.

He offered no answer. No sympathy. No explanation. Nothing.

Just a slight nod toward the letter in my hands, as if confirming I had read it. Then he turned and walked away.

I pushed out of my chair.

"Hey!"

Several customers glanced over.

The man never slowed. He crossed the coffee shop, stepped through the front door, and disappeared outside.

I hurried to the window.

A black SUV waited at the curb. The man climbed into the passenger seat. The vehicle pulled away immediately. Within seconds it vanished around the corner.

Gone.

I stood there clutching the letter. My reflection stared back at me in the glass.

Dark eyes. Olive skin. Those were the Middle Eastern features I’d inherited from my maternal side. The same face I'd spent years comparing to photographs of a man who had never wanted me.

My gaze dropped to the signature.

Keenan Ashwood

For the first time in my life, he had reached out.

And somehow that felt worse than if he never had.