Chapter 54 The Inheritance
Sophia’s POV
The basement was far too cold for my old bones, but the sight of that metal case in Brittany's hands made the ache in my joints disappear. David helped me back into the studio, my cane thumping against the floorboards until I reached my velvet armchair. I sat down heavily, watching the two of them stand in the center of the room like two soldiers who had finally found the map to the enemy's heart.
"I knew it was there," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence of the studio.
Brittany stopped pacing, her head snapping toward me. The dust from the basement was still on her face, but her eyes were sharp. "You knew? Sophia, we have been searching for months. We have been fighting for our lives."
"I knew Clara moved the originals there in those final days," I said, leaning my head back against the chair. I looked at the ceiling, seeing the faces of the people who used to walk these halls. "She was a terrified mother, but she was a brilliant tactician. She told me she had found a place where the shadows couldn't reach. I went down there once, many years ago, just to confirm the case was still sealed. I touched the cold stone, felt the rust on the bolt, and I made a decision."
David frowned, his hands resting on the back of a chair. "Why leave it there? Why let her legacy sit in the dark for thirty years?"
"Because there was no one to give it to, David," I said, looking him in the eye. "Harrison was at the height of his power. He was a monster who would have burned that room to the ground if he suspected a single page existed. I had to wait. I had to wait until there was someone worth giving it to. Someone who wouldn't just use it for a settlement, but someone who could carry the weight of what it means."
I looked directly at Brittany. She was holding the contract like it was a holy relic.
"Your mother's contract is not just a piece of history," I said, leaning forward until the light from the desk lamp hit my face. "If you reactivate that agreement with the House of Moretti, it entitles Clara's estate to thirty years of profits. Think about every dress, every perfume, every accessory they sold under the Blackwell name that was built on her stolen sketches. You are entitled to the royalties, the compound interest, and massive damages for fraudulent acquisition."
Brittany swallowed hard, her fingers tightening on the edges of the paper. "Legal fees alone would be a fortune, Sophia. Taking on a global house like that is impossible."
"Not with that document," David said, his voice low and analytical. "This isn't a dispute over a sketch. This is a wholesale identity theft of a corporate entity. The House of Moretti will have to choose between a public trial that destroys their reputation or paying the debt they owe to the rightful heir."
I nodded, watching the realization dawn on Brittany's face. "The sum would be significant, child. It is enough to fund everything you want to build. You could open your own house tomorrow. You could buy your own factories. You wouldn't need a single Blackwell cent. You wouldn't need anyone's backing or anyone's permission ever again."
Brittany looked down at the contract in her hands. The room was so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. She looked like she was trying to calculate the weight of a mountain.
"How significant, Sophia?" she asked. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried across the room. "Tell me the actual number."
I reached into the side pocket of my cardigan and pulled out a small, folded slip of paper. I had done the math long ago, tracking the annual reports of the Moretti group year after year. I had watched their stock rise on the back of my friend's talent, and I had kept the tally in my heart like a vengeful accountant. I handed the paper to her.
Brittany opened it. Her eyes scanned the digits, then she looked at me, then back at the paper. She didn't speak. She couldn't. She simply handed the paper to David.
David took it, his face a mask of professional calm that usually never cracked. He looked at the number. Then he looked at it again, his brow furrowing as he did the mental currency conversions and added the interest. He set the paper down on the desk with a hand that actually trembled.
That is more than the Blackwell trust is worth.