The Contract With The Condescending Heir

Chapter2:The Picture Book Of Numbers

NOVA

I do not remember packing.

My hands moved on their own. The gray sweater. The black pants. The few books I own. The small framed photo of a flower I drew when I was ten. Everything fit into one old suitcase. The zipper caught halfway, and I had to pull it twice to make it close.

That is the thing about owning almost nothing. Leaving is easy.

I look around the basement room one last time. The broken closet door. The gray walls. The single window that shows nothing but feet.

I do not say goodbye.

No one is in the living room when I walk up the basement stairs. The kitchen is empty too. Rosalind must be in her room. I think about knocking on her door, but my throat is already tight, and I know if I see her face I will break.

So I walk to the back door. The one the servants use. I open it slowly so it does not creak.

The air outside is cold. The sky is turning orange. Late afternoon.

I pull my suitcase down the steps and onto the sidewalk. My legs feel heavy. My chest feels hollow.

The bus stop is two blocks away. Maybe I can find a cheap hotel. Something with thin walls and a bed that does not smell. Then I can figure out the rest in the morning.

"Nova! Nova, wait!"

I stop walking. That voice.

I turn around.

Rosalind is running toward me. Her gray hair is coming loose from her bun. Her apron is still tied around her waist. She is moving faster than I have ever seen her move, her arms pumping, her face red.

I let go of my suitcase. It falls to the sidewalk with a thud.

I run toward her.

How could I have forgotten? How could I have left without saying goodbye to her? The only person in that house who ever loved me. The woman who snuck food into my room when Evelyn said I should starve. The woman who held me when I cried as a child.

We meet halfway. She grabs my arms. Her hands are shaking.

"Nova," she says. Her voice cracks. "This is so cruel. You deserve better than this. Not this."

Her eyes are wet. Tears spill down her cheeks.

And that does it.

The dam breaks.

I start crying. Not quiet tears. Real crying. The kind that hurts your throat and makes your nose run. I cannot stop it. Twenty-one years of holding it in, and now it all comes out on a sidewalk in the cold evening air.

"It is okay," I say. But my voice wobbles. "It is okay, Rosalind."

She shakes her head. "It is not okay. You have nowhere. You have no one."

"I am fine," I say. The words feel like lies.

Rosalind pulls back. She studies my face. Her eyes are red, but they are sharp. She looks at me like she is trying to memorize every line.

"I have something for you," she says.

She reaches into the pocket of her apron. When her hand comes out, she is holding a book.

A picture book. Old. Worn. The edges of the cover are soft, like someone turned the pages many times. The color has faded to something between brown and red.

She presses it into my hands.

I look down at it. "What is this?"

"Your mother gave it to me," Rosalind says. "She said I should hand it to you when you turned twenty-five. I have never opened it. It was not my place."

My mother.

My chest stops moving. My mother died when I was four. I have nothing of hers. No photos. No letters. No memories that are not shadows.

"How do you know my mother?" My voice comes out small.

Rosalind's face softens. "I have been working in that house for a long time, child. Longer than you know." She does not say more. Her eyes say there is more, but not here. Not now.

I look down at the book. My fingers trace the worn cover.

I open it.

The first page is a photograph. A woman with brown hair and brown eyes. She is smiling. She looks just like me. Identical.

My breath catches.

I flip the page. A man with kind eyes and dark hair. My father. I have never seen his face before. Not really.

Another page. The same two people, younger, holding a tiny baby wrapped in a white blanket. Me.

New tears come. These are not sad tears. I do not know what these are. Something heavy and light at the same time.

I flip another page. Something falls out.

An envelope. Cream-colored paper. My name written on the front in handwriting I do not recognize.

It lands on the sidewalk at my feet.

I bend down and pick up the envelope.

My hands are shaking. My name is written across the front in looping handwriting. Feminine. Careful. Like the person who wrote it wanted every letter to be perfect.

"What is this?" I ask Rosalind.

"Open it," Rosalind says softly. "It is from your mother."

My mother.

I tear the envelope open. Inside is a letter. Pages of it. Cream-colored paper covered in the same careful handwriting.

I start to read.

My dearest Nova,

If you are reading this, I am gone. And I am so sorry. I am sorry I am not there to raise you. I am sorry I left you to suffer with Evelyn.

My eyes blur. I blink hard and keep reading.

I married your father, David, against Evelyn's wishes. She hated me from the day we met. She thought I was not good enough for her brother. The truth was, she wanted his money for herself.

Everything — the houses, the investments, the land — all of it belongs to your father's line. And after he passed, it was my place to hold the fort until you became old enough to inherit.

I stop breathing.

But I knew my place was not secure. Evelyn did not want me there. I knew she might try to take everything. So I set measures in place. Just in case.

I have two contacts. Two good friends from college. Marcus Webb, a barrister. And Clara Sterling, my dearest friend. They will help you.

Here is the deal I made with Clara. Her son, Julian, is a good man. I have met him as a baby. If you marry him, the Sterling family will use their power and wealth to help you reclaim what is yours. It is the only way to protect you from Evelyn.

I am sorry to ask this of you. But I did not know another way.

I love you, my daughter. I always have. I always will.

Your mother, Lily.

I finish the letter. My hands drop to my sides.

So it was all hers.

Every penny. Every painting. Every piece of fine china that Evelyn ate off. Every diamond around Vanessa's neck.

It was all mine.

And Evelyn stole it. Twenty-one years of stealing. Twenty-one years of making me sleep in a basement and eat in the kitchen while she lived like a queen on my father's money.

"That conniving b***h," I whisper. Then louder. "That conniving b***h took everything from me."

Rosalind flinches. "Nova — "

"She made me feel like nothing. Like I was a charity case she was doing a favor by keeping around. And all along, it was mine. Every single thing was mine."

My voice cracks. Anger and grief tangle in my chest.

Rosalind reaches for me, but I step back.

"Why did you not tell me?" I ask. "You knew. You worked there. You knew my mother. Why did you not say something?"

Rosalind's face crumples. "I had no evidence, child. Evelyn would have denied it. And if I had spoken up, she would have fired me. Then who would have snuck you food? Who would have mended your clothes?" She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I stayed quiet to protect you the only way I could. I am sorry. I am so sorry."

I stare at her. The anger drains a little. Not all the way. But enough.

She did what she could.

I pull out my phone. My fingers move fast. I find the name from the letter — Marcus Webb. There is a phone number written at the bottom of the letter. I dial.

It rings twice.

"Marcus Webb," a man's voice says. Professional. Calm.

"Mr. Webb," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. "My name is Nova Bennett. Lily Bennett was my mother."

A pause. Then: "Miss Bennett. I have been waiting for your call for twenty-one years."

I close my eyes.

"I need to see you," I say.

"Come to my office," he says. "350 Fifth Avenue, suite 420. In Manhattan. How soon can you be here?"

I look at the sky. It is getting darker. But I do not care.

"Tonight," I say. "I will be there tonight."

"Good," he says. "I will be waiting."

The line goes dead.

I put my phone back in my pocket and turn to Rosalind. She is still crying, but she is smiling too. A sad, hopeful smile.

"I have to go," I say.

Rosalind nods. She pulls me into a hug. Her body is warm. She smells like flour and soap.

"Go get what is yours," she whispers in my ear.

I pull back. I pick up my suitcase. The wheels scrape against the sidewalk.

"Thank you, Rosalind," I say. "For everything."

"Go," she says. "Before I start crying again."

I turn and walk toward the bus stop. My legs feel different now. Stronger.

I do not look back.

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