That night, when I couldn’t sleep, I told myself that it was because we still hadn’t heard anything from Libby and Nash. Every text I sent went unread and unanswered. That was what kept me up so late that I was guaranteed to wake up the next morning with dark circles under my eyes. Not Grayson.
The next evening, I still hadn’t heard from Libby, and Grayson Hawthorne and I were sitting next to each other, under a flood of lights, with Monica Winfield smiling into the camera.
I am so not ready for this.
“Avery, let’s start with you. Walk us through what happened the day Tobias Hawthorne’s will was read.”
That was a softball question. Gratitude. Awe. Relatability. I could do this
—and I did. Grayson answered his first softball question just as easily.
He even managed to make eye contact with me the first time he said my name.
We got two more softballs apiece before Monica moved on to trickier territory. “Avery, let’s talk about your mother.”
Keep it short, I could hear Landon telling me. And sincere.
“She was wonderful,” I said fiercely. “I would give anything for her to be here now.”
That was short, and it was sincere—but it also opened me up to a follow-up. “You must have heard some of the… rumors.”
That my mom was living under a fake name. That she was a con artist. I couldn’t lose my temper. Spin the question. That was what I was supposed to do: Start talking about my mother but end up talking about how grateful and awed and gosh darn normal I was.
Beside me, Grayson leaned forward. “When the world is watching your every move, when everyone knows your name, when you’re famous just by being—you stop following rumors pretty quickly. Last I heard, I was supposedly dating a princess, and my brother Jameson had some very questionable tattoos.”
Monica’s eyes lit up. “Does he?”
Grayson leaned back in his seat. “A Hawthorne never tells.”
He was good at this—much better than I was—and just like that, the interviewer was redirected off the topic of my mother. “Your family has been very closemouthed about this entire situation,” she told Grayson. “The last the world heard, your aunt Zara was implying there might be a legal solution to your dilemma.”
The last public statement Zara had given had more or less accused me of elder abuse.
“You can say a lot of things about my grandfather,” Grayson replied smoothly, “but Tobias Hawthorne wasn’t known for leaving loopholes.”
Something about the way he said that made it clear that the topic was closed. How does he do that?
“Avery.” Monica zeroed back in on me. “We’ve talked a bit about your mother. Let’s talk about your father.”
That was one of my “no” questions. I shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”
“You’re a minor, correct? And your legal guardian is your sister, Libby?”
I could tell where this was going. Just because the network wasn’t airing the interview with Ricky and Skye didn’t mean that Monica hadn’t filed away their statements for future reference. She was going to ask me about custody.
Not if I redirect. “Libby took me in after my mom died. She didn’t have to. She was twenty-three. Because our dad was never around, we hadn’t spent much time together. We were practically strangers, but she took me in. She is the single most loving person I’ve ever met in my life.”
That was one of the core truths of my existence, and I didn’t have to work to sell it.
“I suppose that’s one thing Avery and I have in common,” Grayson added beside me. He didn’t elaborate and forced Monica into asking the follow-up question.
“And what is that?”
“If you’re going to come at our siblings,” he told her, his smile sharp, his gaze full of warning, “you’re going to have to go through us.”
This was the Grayson I’d met weeks ago: dripping power and well aware that he could come out on top in any battle. He didn’t make threats, because he didn’t have to.
“Did you feel protective of your brothers after you realized your grandfather had essentially written them out of the will?” Monica asked him. I got the sense that she wanted Grayson to say that he resented me. She wanted to poke holes in the message he’d been delivering.
“You could say that.” Grayson held her gaze, then broke it to glance deliberately at me.
“I think we’re all protective of Avery now. It’s not something that my brothers or I expect anyone else to understand, but the simple truth is that we’re not normal. My grandfather didn’t raise us to be normal, and this is what he wanted. This is his legacy.” His gaze burned into me. “She is.”
He sold every single word—enough that I could almost believe that he really thought I was special.
“And you have no reservations about the entire situation?” Monica pressed.
Grayson gave her a wolfish smile. “None.”
“No desire to overturn the will?”
“I’ve already told you: That can’t be done.”
The trick to answering “no” questions was perfect, bulletproof confidence in your reply. Grayson was a master of the art.
“But if it could?” Monica asked.
“This is what my grandfather wanted,” Grayson replied, returning to his core message. “My brothers and I are lucky—luckier than almost anyone else watching this. We’ve been given every opportunity, and we have a lot of the old man in us. We’ll make our own way.” He glanced toward me again, but this time it felt more choreographed. “Someday, what I make of myself will give your fortune a run for its money.”
I grinned. Take that, Monica.
“Avery, how does it feel when Grayson says those words: your fortune?”
“Unreal.” I shook my head. “Before the will was read, back when I knew that I’d been left something but didn’t know what, I figured that Tobias Hawthorne had left me a couple thousand dollars. And even that? It would have been life-changing.”
“So this?”
“Unreal,” I repeated, projecting every ounce of gratitude and awe and bewilderment that I had felt in that moment.
“Do you ever feel like it might all go away?”
Beside me, Grayson shifted slightly, his body angling toward mine. But I didn’t need his protection right now. I was on a roll.
“Yes.”
“And what if I told you—both of you—that there might be another heir?”
I went still, my face frozen. I couldn’t risk even looking at Grayson, but I wondered if he’d sensed something was off the moment before, if that was why he’d shifted. I could see now all the ways the interviewer had been leading up to this. She’d asked Grayson about overturning the will—twice.
She’d asked me how I’d feel if it all went away.
“Avery, do you know what the term pretermitted means, in the context of inheritance law?”
My brain couldn’t catch up fast enough. Toby. She can’t know about Toby. Skye doesn’t. Ricky doesn’t. “I…”
“It typically refers to an heir who was not yet born at the deceased’s time of death, but interpreted a bit more broadly, our experts say that it could refer to any heir who was not ‘alive’ at the time of death.”
She knew. I glanced at Grayson. I couldn’t help it. His gaze was focused on the interviewer’s as he spoke. “I’m sure your experts told you that in the state of Texas, a pretermitted child is entitled only to a share that is equal to the deceased’s other children’s.” Grayson’s eyes were sharp—and so was his close-lipped smile. “Since my grandfather left very little to his children, even if he had somehow conceived a child before his death, it would hardly alter the distribution of his assets at all.”
In that moment, Grayson didn’t seem like he was nineteen years old. He hadn’t just spouted off legal precedent—he’d deliberately overlooked the fact that Monica had made it clear she wasn’t talking about an unborn child.
“Your family really has been looking for loopholes, haven’t they?”
Monica said, but she didn’t mean it as a question. “Perhaps they should have a sit-down with our experts, because it’s not clear, based on precedent, whether a child assumed to be dead would be entitled only to their siblings’
share, or to the share left to that child in a prior will.”
Grayson stared her down. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
He did. Of course he did. He was just hiding it better than I did, because all I could do was sit there silently and think one name, over and over.
Toby.
“You had an uncle.” Monica was still focused on Grayson.
“He died,” Grayson said sharply. “Before I was even born.”
“Under tragic and suspicious circumstances.” Monica swung her head to face me. “Avery.” She hit a button on a remote I hadn’t even been aware she was holding. A trio of pictures flashed on a large screen behind us.
The same pictures I’d shown Mrs. Laughlin the day before.
“Who is this man?”
I swallowed. “My friend. Harry.” Tell a story. “We used to play chess in the park.”
“Do you have many friends in their forties?”
When you can’t tell the truth, tell a truth. Tell a story. “He was the only one who could take my queen. We had a running bet: If I won a game, he had to let me buy him breakfast. I knew he didn’t have the money to buy it himself. I was afraid he might not eat otherwise, but he hated charity, so I had to win, fair and square.”
I’d done Landon proud—but Monica wasn’t deterred. “So it is your statement that this man is not Tobias Hawthorne the Second?”
“How dare you?” Grayson’s voice vibrated with intensity. He stood.
“Hasn’t my family suffered enough? We just lost my grandfather. To dredge up this tragedy—”
“Avery.” Monica knew who the weak link here was. “Is this or is this not Tobias Hawthorne’s supposedly deceased son? The true heir to the Hawthorne fortune?”
“This interview is over.” Grayson turned to block the camera and helped me to my feet. He met my gaze, and even though he didn’t say a word, I heard him loud and clear: We need to get out of here.
He ushered me to the wings, where Alisa was trying to bust past a security guard. Monica followed us, a cameraman with a handheld in her wake. “What is your connection to Toby Hawthorne?” she yelled after me.
The world was falling down around me. We hadn’t prepared for this. I wasn’t ready. But I had an answer to that question. I had a truth, and if they knew this much, then what would the harm be in telling them the rest.
What is your connection to Toby Hawthorne?
“I’m his—”
Before I could get the word daughter out, Grayson leaned his head down and crushed his lips to mine. He kissed me to save me from what I’d been about to say. For a small eternity, nothing in the world existed outside of that kiss.
His lips. Mine.
For show.
