"LEENA?"

My eyes shot open. My grip on the pillar somewhere on the way turned into me leaning completely on it.

I looked up at the voice. There she was. My anchor. My pillar. My little Ave.

"Hey..." I stood up straight, "Sorry, I..." I lifted my shoulders and dropped them into a shrug. I had no other way to explain my little episode but, "I'm still a bit sick from the flight, I guess."

My little Ave knew me better than to believe what I said. But she decided to let it go and simply took my hand in hers. Squeezing it as she briefed me on all that happened.

"So you met a Hawthorne boy in an overly complex closet, saying something about secret passages and then dragging Libs away to a Rollercoaster?" I blinked.

"Pretty much." Avery and I walked up to Grayson. He opened his mouth, probably to ask about me, I beat him to it, "I'm fine." Having no further need to converse on the topic, he chose to focus on Avery instead.

"I apologize for Xander," Grayson commented. "He tends not to buy into such antiquated notions as thinking before one speaks and sitting still for more than three consecutive seconds." He looked down. "He's the best of us, even on
his worst days."

"Sounds like a cool guy." I stared at the paintings on the walls. Beautifully made. Showing so much more than they say.

"Ms. Ortega said there were four of you." Avery couldn't help herself. I had a feeling she wanted to know more about this family. About him. I smirked inwardly, so much for heart under lock and key. "Four grandsons, I mean."

"I have three brothers," Grayson told her, although for some reason his eyes went to mine. As if he wanted me to be part of the conversation. "Same mother, different fathers. Our aunt Zara doesn't have any children."

He looked past Avery. "And on the topic of my relations, I feel as though I should issue a second apology, in advance."

Immediately my protective instincts flared up. I was about to shoot a look at him and tell him not to get any ideas. But then a voice stopped me from doing so.

"Gray, darling!" A woman swept up to us in a swirl of fabric and motion.

Once her flowy shirt had settled around her, I tried to peg her age. Older than thirty, younger than fifty. Beyond that, I couldn't tell.

"They're ready for us in the Great Room," she told Grayson. "Or they will be shortly. Where's your brother?"

"Specificity, Mother."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Don't you 'Mother' me, Grayson Hawthorne."

She turned to Avery. "You'd think he was born wearing that suit," she said with the air of someone confiding a great secret, "but Gray was my little streaker—a real free spirit. We couldn't keep clothes on him at all until he was four. Frankly, I didn't even try."

I couldn't help but let my lips twitch at the picture of the pristine man in front of me, running around butt naked as a toddler while people chased him with clothes.

She paused and assessed Ave without bothering to hide what she was doing. "You must be Ava."

"Avery." Both I and Grayson corrected at the same time, causing us both to glance at each other. His was neutral. Mine was more like back-tf-off-pretty-boy. Okay. I might be a little bit protective of her.

"Oh, and you!" She clasped her hands together, looking at me. Yup. It was my turn, "you must be Arina!"

Arina.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Grayson's jaw tense. Then again, my corner vision was pretty nasty. I must have been seeing things.

"Arlene." I corrected.

The woman smiled almost coyly at me, "Arlene." She let it roll off her tongue. "What a pretty name you have. Arlene."

"Mother," Grayson warned. I must have been hearing Japanese again. He sounded almost aggravated as if he wanted her to stop using my name.

The woman sighed but also smiled as if this was all just a little play. "I always swore my children would call me by my first name," she told me. "I'd raise them as my equals, you know? But then, I always imagined having girls. Four boys later..."

She gave the world's most elegant shrug.

To Avery, Grayson's Mother was infectious. To me? Dangerous.

And so she began astrologically examining me and my sister.

"Mother," Grayson said, and then he corrected himself. "Skye."

That must be her first name, and he'd used it to humor her in an attempt to get her to stop astrologically cross-examining us.

"Grayson's a good boy," Skye told me. And how it seemed, me specifically. "Too good." Then she winked at me and Avery (two times. It was weird to watch her wink two times). "We'll talk."

"I doubt the Grambs' plans to stay long enough for a fireside chat or a tarot reading." A second woman, Skye's age or a little older, inserted herself into our conversation. If Skye was flowy fabric and oversharing, this woman was pencil skirts and pearls.

She introduced herself as Zara Hawthorne-Calligris. Asked a few questions. All we could answer was we didn't know.

A guy, probably Zara's husband called her away. And then Skye proceeded to tell us about her four... intimate conversations with four lovely men.

"I will pay you to stop right there," Grayson said, a pained expression on his face.

Skye patted her son's cheek. "Bribe. Threaten. Buy out. You couldn't be more Hawthorne, darling, if you tried." She gave me a knowing smile. "That's why we call him the heir apparent."

Heir apparent. I looked away. I've got a real bad feeling about this...

We all made our way to the Great Room. Where maybe finally we would get some answers. For the good.

Or the worse.

········•✦•········

The Great Room was two-thirds the size of the foyer. An enormous stone fireplace stood at the front. There were gargoyles carved into the sides of the fireplace. Literal gargoyles. Reminded me of Crabbe and Goyle.

Grayson deposited Libby, Ave, and me into wingback chairs and then excused himself to the front of the room, where three older gentlemen in suits stood, talking to Zara and her husband.

The lawyers, I realized. After another few minutes, Alisa joined them, and I took stock of the other occupants of the room. A White couple, older, in their sixties at least. A Black man, in his forties, with a military bearing, stood with his back to a wall and maintained a clear line of sight to both exits.

I might have looked away for, what, 60 seconds? When I turned my head to Avery, my dear sister looked a century older... and snobby-er. It took me a moment to realize that wasn't my sister. I was face to face, nose to nose against some crinkly old hag.

"AH!" I yelped as I jumped back in my seat.  

The old hag let out a long, assessing hum, "You the one they call Leena?" I scooted back a bit and nodded. My face immediately neutralized. The woman held me by the chin and tilted my head as if trying to find something.

I cleared my throat, "Um, ma'am?"

Behind her a boy I could only assume as Xander Hawthorne, grinned at me, "So, the new girl caught your eye, huh, Nan?" Nan hmphed away and sat down right beside me. I just awkwardly blinked at Libby. Then I noticed that Ave wasn't in the room. Instead of her coming inside, some half-naked guy entered the room.

My eyes scanned him over, reading him like an open book.

Toned body, light skin, random thin scar along his upper half. Hair, messy, and eyes droopy. A barely noticeable stumble in his walking. The flush of his cheeks. Drunk. Jameson Hawthorne was drunk and shirtless.

I respectfully looked away, unbothered. Another day, another slay, for rich people, I guess. 

But what did end up bothering me, was Avery coming back shortly after him. Amusing and bothering. Somebody get Ave a better lock. 

Before I could give her a good sisterly smack, the lawyer spoke.

"Now that everyone is here," one of the lawyers said, "let's get started." The three lawyers stood in a triangle formation. The one who'd spoken shared Alisa's dark hair, brown skin, and self-assured expression. I assumed he was the Ortega in McNamara, Ortega, and Jones. The other two—presumably Jones and McNamara—stood to either side.

Since when does it take four lawyers to read a will? I thought.

"You are here," Mr. Ortega said, projecting his voice to the corners of the room, "to hear the last will and testament of Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne. Per Mr. Hawthorne's instructions, my colleagues will now distribute letters he has left for each of you."

The other men began to make the rounds of the room, handing out envelopes one by one.

"You may open these letters when the reading is concluded." 

I was handed an envelope. My full name was written in calligraphy on the front. Beside me, Libby looked up at the lawyer, but he passed over her, gave Avery one, and went on delivering envelopes to the other occupants of the room.

The will was read. I didn't pay much attention. It was just the dead rich guy throwing zeros—lots of zeros on the right—at his servants and security staff. Normal dead-billionaire stuff, I guessed. What did manage to grab my attention was that when the part of the daughters came, Tobias Hawthorne had left barely any money (in billionaire terms) a lousy compass, and a wedding ring. Weird.

Now I was listening.

"You did this." Zara turned toward Skye. She didn't raise her voice, but it was deadly all the same.

"Me?" Skye said, indignant.

"Daddy was never the same after Toby died," Zara continued.

"Disappeared," Skye corrected. Disappeared?

"God, listen to you!" Zara lost her hold on her tone. "You got in his head, didn't you, Skye? Batted your eyelashes and convinced him to bypass us and leave everything to your—"

"Sons." Skye's voice was crisp. "The word you're looking for is sons."

"The word she's looking for is bastards." Nash Hawthorne had the thickest Texas accent of anyone in the room. "Not like we haven't heard it before."

"If I'd had a son..." Zara's voice caught.

"But you didn't." Skye let that sink in. "Did you, Zara?" Things were starting to get escalated. So was my nagging headache. I clutch my head softly, not noticing Nan glance at me.

"Enough." Zara's husband stepped in. "We will sort this out."

"I'm afraid there's nothing to be sorted." Mr. Ortega reentered the fray. "You will find the will is ironclad, with significant disincentives to any who might be tempted to challenge it."

I translated that to mean, roughly, shut up and sit down.

"Now, if I may continue..." Mr. Ortega looked back down at the will in his hands. "To my grandsons, Nash Westbrook Hawthorne, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, Jameson Winchester Hawthorne, and Alexander Blackwood Hawthorne, I leave..."

Davenport. Westbrook. Winchester and Blackwood. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why did those words poke me so much? Like a little needle pricking me. Taunting me. As if I was supposed to know this.  

"Everything," Zara muttered bitterly.

Mr. Ortega spoke over her. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars apiece, payable on their twenty-fifth birthdays, until such time to be managed by Alisa Ortega, trustee."

"What?" Alisa sounded shocked. "I mean... what?"

"The hell," Nash told her pleasantly. "The phrase you're looking for, darlin', is what the hell?"

What the fuck was more like it. My eyelids shot open. My head up and back straight. The light in my eyes made my pupils shrink and my amber eyes swirl. Confusion, denial. Fear.

I never was that great in maths or logistics. I was an observer and a little bit of a thinker. But right now, for the first time since fifth grade, I was confident that my answer was correct.

Confident. Not thrilled.

And maybe Ave was at the same conclusion as me. Avery. My fingers twitched to grab hers and Libby's; drag them out of the room, and walk back to Connecticut if we had to. Go back to living peacefully, albeit a little uncomfortably, in Ave's car. Listen to Jerry's crazy dreams. Get a chance to put Drake six feet down. Stay home. Away from this mansion. From these rich people. From those gray eyes. 

From what I was certain was to come next. 

"What is going on here?" Grayson asked, each word deadly and precise. Tobias Hawthorne didn't leave everything to his grandsons. He didn't leave everything to his daughters. My brain ground to a halt right there. My ears rang once more. My head no longer acheing but burning.

"Please, everyone," Mr. Ortega held up a hand. "Allow me to finish."

"The Hawthorne Foundation, I leave to the possession of Avery Kylie Grambs." My hands immediately held hers in the tense silence. All eyes on her. Everything in me was screaming to step in front of her. To shield her. But my mind was too scrambled.

I was a little child, moving her chess pieces. 

And finally... the words I feared the most.

"The remainder of my estate," Mr. Ortega read, "including all properties, monetary assets, and worldly possessions not otherwise specified,"

"I leave to Arlene Amira Grambs."

········•✦•········

a/n: DUN DUN DUNNNNNN