CHAPTER 2: Ghosts Don’t Send Lawyers
1492 Words
Elena
If you ever want to test how deeply someone’s hit bottom, offer them something impossible and see if they laugh.
I didn’t laugh.
When Roman Sutton told me he needed a fake wife, I just stared at him. Heart racing. Skin buzzing with something between panic and disbelief. The word wife echoed in my brain like it had short-circuited the rest of me.
“Excuse me?” I said, finally, because it was the only word that didn’t sound insane.
He sat. Like this was normal. Like we were discussing the weather.
“You’ll be compensated, of course,” he said, flipping open a folder on the table beside him. “Handsomely.”
I was too stunned to sit down, so I stood there, wrapped in my too-thin coat, eyeing the man like he might suddenly unzip himself and reveal this was a prank show.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. I know you’re drowning in medical debt. I know you haven’t paid your rent in two months. I know your power was shut off today. I know you dropped out of grad school and you’ve been applying to jobs far beneath your qualifications. Desperation makes people very easy to trace.”
His words landed like punches. Clean, efficient, factual. No venom. Just truth.
I hated how right he was.
I hated how much I wanted to say yes.
But I didn’t.
Not that night.
---
A week later, I’m back at the diner. My fingertips are numb. The heat’s back on, barely—temporary grace period after I pawned the last piece of my mother’s jewelry. A silver locket she wore every day until her hands shook too much to clasp it.
Now it's gone. Traded for seventy-five bucks and a flickering furnace.
I sip lukewarm coffee and try to pretend it fills the cracks in me.
The fake wife's offer haunts me. I haven’t told anyone. There’s no one to tell. No friends left. No safety net. Just the echo of Roman Sutton’s voice and the memory of his eyes—calm, calculated, like he already knew what I would choose.
Maybe he did.
But before I can spiral any deeper, someone slides into the booth across from me.
A stranger. Late thirties. Gray suit. Slick hair. Thin leather briefcase.
I blink. “Can I help you?”
He pulls out a business card and slides it across the table.
Derrick Lawrence. Attorney at Law. Hartwell & Greaves.
“Are you Elena Torres?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Who’s asking?”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m here on behalf of Victoria Hartwell’s estate.”
My entire body stiffens. That name. It hits like a slap.
“I think you have the wrong person.”
“I don’t.” He reaches into the briefcase and pulls out a folder. “Victoria Hartwell passed away last month. She named you in a sealed directive.”
I stare at him like he’s hallucinating. “Victoria Hartwell is dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know this may be a shock.”
Shock is too small a word. It’s an earthquake. Victoria Hartwell was more ghost than woman—an untouchable legend who vanished from my life ten years ago without a goodbye.
“You knew her?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I represent her. Or rather, I did. Her final request was that I meet you in person and extend an offer.”
My palms sweat. I haven’t said her name aloud in years. Haven’t let myself think about what she meant to me, or what it meant when she left.
“You're sure she meant me?”
He opens the folder and slides a photo across the table.
Me. Age seventeen. In a ratty hoodie, flipping off the camera, while Victoria laughs in the background, perfectly manicured, cigarette dangling from red lips. Her eyes—sharp and cruel and dazzling.
I remember that day. I remember the feeling of being seen.
“She kept that photo,” he says. “In her safe.”
Something in me cracks.
“What kind of offer?” I ask, too tired to pretend this isn’t happening.
He straightens. “Miss Hartwell made arrangements before her death. She left behind a private collection, a series of personal effects, and a few… unfinished matters. She selected you to assist in closing her estate. There’s a generous compensation package attached.”
“Why me?”
“She said—and I quote—‘She’s the only one ruthless enough to handle it, and the only one I ever trusted.’”
I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. She left without saying goodbye.”
“She left you something. Several things, actually. But to claim them, you have to come to the Hartwell estate. In person. Tomorrow morning.”
I stare at him, head spinning. “Where is it?”
“Outside of Ashford Hills. Upstate.”
Ashford Hills. The kind of town where old money goes to rot in peace. Victoria once called it a graveyard wrapped in a country club.
“I can’t just up and go to the countryside,” I say. “I have—”
“You have nothing holding you,” he interrupts, kind but firm. “I read the file. You’re in debt. Jobless. Alone. I’m not judging. I’m stating facts.”
I flinch.
He slides over another card. This one’s black, embossed.
All expenses covered.
“Train leaves at 8:10 a.m. I’ll be at the station.”
He stands, just like that. No pressure. No push.
But it’s a trap. I feel it. An emotional bear trap with velvet padding. Victoria always had a way of pulling you back into her orbit. A queen of secrets. A puppeteer.
I watch him walk out the door. He doesn’t look back.
---
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Instead, I dig out the shoebox from under my bed. The one labeled Do Not Open Unless Dying.
Inside is every piece of Victoria I’ve tried to forget. A burned letter. A cracked Zippo. A theater stub from Paris. Her scent still clings to it—Chanel and sin.
She was a whirlwind. A monster and a muse.
My mother hated her. Said she was toxic. Said she’d swallow me whole and spit out the parts that made me real.
Maybe she was right.
But Victoria was the first person who made me feel alive. Who saw the mess in me and called it potential instead of damage. Who said, You're not broken. You’re just too big for the cage they put you in.
And then she disappeared. Just stopped calling. No explanation. No warning.
Now she’s dead.
And she sent a lawyer to drag me back into her world.
***
The next morning, I’m on the platform by 8:00. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder. I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe it’s morbid curiosity. Maybe it’s the promise of money. Maybe it’s something darker—unfinished grief.
The lawyer finds me. Nods. Doesn’t ask questions.
The train ride is a blur. Snow blurs past the window. My head spins with ghosts.
We pull into Ashford Hills at noon. A black car waits.
The drive is long and silent. Winding roads. Dead trees. Wealth hidden behind iron gates and long driveways.
When we stop, I recognize the place before he even says it.
Hartwell Manor.
Victoria’s house. Her throne. Her mausoleum.
It hasn’t changed. Ivy climbs the brick like veins. The windows are dark. Curtains drawn. The whole place hums with old secrets.
I step out, boots crunching on frozen gravel.
He leads me inside.
It smells the same. Dust and whiskey and roses.
“In here,” he says, opening the study door.
I step in—
And stop dead.
Because someone is already in the room.
Sitting in the armchair, legs crossed, black suit. Watching me.
Roman Sutton.
“What the hell—?”
He stands, slowly.
“Nice to see you again, Elena.”
My pulse spikes. “What are you doing here?”
He smirks. “Didn’t expect to see me so soon?”
“This was your lawyer?”
“Victoria was my godmother.”
My mouth drops.
“No,” I whisper.
“She’s the reason I picked you.”
He walks toward me, slow and deliberate.
“Victoria set everything in motion before she died. The fake marriage. The inheritance. The business deal. You were her final move.”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
He stops in front of me. His eyes are darker than I remember.
“You’re not just here to claim what she left behind. You’re here to finish what she started.”
My voice is barely audible. “What did she start?”
Roman smiles, sharp and cold.
“A war.”
- Writer
