The air in Mr. Abernathy’s office was as thick and stagnant as forgotten history. It smelled of aging paper, leather polish, and the faint, sweet scent of pipe tobacco long since smoked.
Lena Petrova sat perfectly erect in a wingback chair that seemed determined to swallow her whole, its cracked burgundy leather a stark contrast to the sharp, modern lines of her charcoal grey suit. She checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. 10:15 AM.
A deposition had been rescheduled for this. A client meeting pushed. All for a proceeding she considered a morbid and inefficient formality.
Across the Persian rug, in a matching chair, sat the primary source of the inefficiency: Finn O’Connell. Her ex-husband. He wasn’t looking at his watch.
He was staring out the window at the sycamore leaves skittering across the courthouse lawn, his gaze distant. A familiar knot tightened in Lena’s stomach—a cocktail of irritation and a ghost of something she refused to name.
He looked… exactly as she’d expected. His dark hair was a little too long, curling over the collar of a tweed jacket that was nicely tailored but undeniably worn at the elbows.
He held a stillness she had once mistaken for peace; now she knew it was just an absence of urgency.
They hadn’t spoken a word since a clipped, monosyllabic greeting in the waiting room. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was crowded with the ghosts of arguments past, with unspoken accusations and the heavy, immovable weight of their divorce decree, finalized eleven months ago.
For Lena, the finality had been a relief, a closing of a chaotic chapter so she could focus on the only thing that made sense: her career. She was on the cusp of a partnership at her firm, a goal she had pursued with the relentless focus of a predator.
This unexpected summons was a distraction.
Finn shifted, the leather of his chair groaning in protest. He could feel Lena’s impatience radiating across the room, a low-frequency hum of disapproval.
He’d seen her check her watch. Of course. For Lena, time wasn’t something to be experienced; it was something to be billed in six-minute increments.
He ran a hand over his face, the grief for his Aunt Maeve still a raw, hollow ache in his chest. Maeve had been more of a mother to him than his own ever was.
She was the one who’d given him his first camera, who’d taught him that beauty could be found in rust and decay, that every storm-battered cliff face had a story. Lena had never understood that.
She saw a dilapidated fence and calculated the cost of repair; he saw the way the morning light caught the peeling paint.
Mr. Abernathy, a man who looked as though he’d been curated by the same decorator as his office, finally entered, carrying a thick vellum folder. “My apologies for the delay,” he said, his voice a gravelly baritone.
“Lena. Finn. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Maeve was… very specific in her instructions.”
He settled behind his enormous mahogany desk, the very picture of somber professionalism. “I won’t prolong this,” he began, opening the folder.
“Maeve O’Connell was a woman of great heart and, it appears, great foresight. There are a few small bequests—donations to the local historical society, her collection of sea glass to a dear friend—but the bulk of her estate is to be addressed to you both.”
Lena’s posture, if possible, became even more rigid. She was prepared for a sentimental token, a piece of art perhaps.
Something she could politely accept, file away, and forget.
Finn leaned forward slightly, a flicker of pained interest in his eyes. He just wanted to hear her voice one last time, even through the dry legalese of a will.
Mr. Abernathy cleared his throat and read from the document. “To my beloved nephew, Finn O’Connell, and to Lena Petrova, who I will always hold in my heart, I leave the entirety of my remaining assets, including my financial portfolio, currently valued at approximately two-point-three million dollars…”
Lena’s breath caught in her throat. The number hung in the air, shimmering, impossible.