Chapter 2: The Lawyer's Office
James Reeves' office is exactly as I remember it.
Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with legal texts, a massive oak desk that takes up half the room. The morning sun streams through the window behind him, making his silver hair look almost white.
He's staring at me like I'm a ghost.
"Miss Hartwell," he says slowly, setting down his coffee cup. "I... I wasn't expecting to see you here."
I sit down in the leather chair across from his desk without waiting for an invitation. My hands are folded in my lap, perfectly calm. I practiced this in the mirror this morning—the posture, the expression, everything. I can't look like the scared eighteen-year-old girl I'm supposed to be.
"You've been trying to reach me about my mother's estate," I say. It's not a question.
Reeves blinks. "Yes. For three years now. Your father said you weren't interested in discussing financial matters until you were older. He said you wanted to focus on school."
"My father lied."
The words hang in the air between us.
Reeves leans back in his chair, studying me. He's a careful man—I remember that from the original timeline. When I finally came to him at twenty-five, desperate and broke, he helped me as much as he could. But by then, most of the damage was done.
Not this time.
"Miss Hartwell," he says carefully, "these are serious accusations—"
"My mother left me twenty million dollars." I cut him off, my voice steady. "A property portfolio including the downtown townhouse, the lake house, and three commercial buildings. Jewelry worth approximately three million dollars. And shares in Hartwell Industries, Chen Technologies, and Morrison Group."
Reeves' eyebrows rise.
I continue. "My father has been managing it as my guardian since I turned fifteen. He's been transferring money to his personal accounts. The jewelry is missing—most of it is in my stepsister Vanessa's room right now. I saw the sapphire necklace on her dresser yesterday."
"How do you—"
"When I turn twenty-one, I get full control. That's two and a half years from now. By then, if things continue as they are, most of it will be gone." I lean forward. "I want a full audit of every transaction my father has made from my accounts. I want to know exactly how much he's stolen."
Reeves is quiet for a long moment. Then he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a thick file folder. He sets it on the desk between us.
"I've been keeping records," he says quietly. "Every time your father made a withdrawal, every transfer, every sale. I documented all of it, hoping that one day you'd come to me."
My chest tightens. Even in the original timeline, he tried to help me. He was one of the few good people in my life.
"How much?" I ask.
He opens the folder and slides a spreadsheet across the desk. I scan the numbers, even though I already know what I'll find.
Eight million dollars. Gone. Transferred to Richard Hartwell's personal accounts over three years.
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
"Most of it was marked as 'educational expenses' and 'living costs,'" Reeves explains. "But Miss Hartwell, you live at home. Your school tuition was paid by scholarship. These numbers don't add up."
"Because he's been funding Vanessa's lifestyle," I say flatly. "Designer clothes, expensive dinners, a new car for her eighteenth birthday last month."
Reeves nods slowly. "I suspected as much. But without you coming forward, there was nothing I could do. He's your legal guardian. He has the right to manage the funds for your benefit."
"For my benefit." I taste the bitterness in those words.
"There's more," Reeves says. He pulls out another document. "Three months ago, your father sold the lake house. It was worth 2.5 million. The money went into his account."
The lake house. My mother's favorite place. She took me there every summer before she died. We'd spend weeks there, just the two of us, swimming and reading and watching the sunset over the water.
Dad sold it.
I close my eyes and breathe through the rage building in my chest.
"What are my options?" I ask when I can speak again.
Reeves steeples his fingers. "Legally, your father has control until you're twenty-one. However, we can petition for early emancipation. If we can prove he's mismanaging your funds, a judge might grant you control sooner."
"How much sooner?"
"Six months, maybe less. But Miss Hartwell—" He leans forward, his expression serious. "Your father won't take this well. He'll fight back. Are you prepared for that? You're eighteen, you still live in his house—"
"I'm moving out," I say immediately. "The downtown townhouse is mine, isn't it? From my mother's estate?"
"Technically, yes. But your father has been using it as a rental property. There are tenants—"
"Evict them. I'll pay whatever buyout is necessary. I want access to that property within the week."
Reeves stares at me. "Miss Hartwell, may I speak frankly?"
"Please."
"When you turned fifteen and I first tried to contact you about your inheritance, you seemed... uninterested. Your father said you were a gentle, accommodating girl who didn't want to worry about money. But the young woman sitting in front of me right now is not that girl." He tilts his head. "What changed?"
I meet his eyes. "I grew up."
It's not a lie. I grew up fast and hard over ten years, and then I died. That changes a person.
Reeves studies me for another moment, then nods. "Alright. I'll file the emancipation petition this afternoon. I'll start the audit process. And I'll contact the tenants about the townhouse." He pauses. "This will get ugly, Miss Hartwell. Your father will be furious. He may try to cut you off completely."
"He can't cut me off from what's already mine."
"Legally, no. But there are other ways he can make your life difficult."
"Let him try."
Reeves almost smiles. Almost. "Very well. Is there anything else?"
I hesitate. This is the part I've been thinking about all night. The part that changes everything.
"There's one more thing," I say. "The Sinclair arrangement."
Reeves freezes. "I'm sorry?"
"Before my mother died, she and Adrian Sinclair's grandfather arranged an engagement between Adrian and me. There was a contract. I know my father has been hiding it from me."
The color drains from Reeves' face. "How did you—Miss Hartwell, that contract was supposed to be confidential until you turned eighteen and were ready to—"
"I'm eighteen. I'm ready." I lean forward. "Do you have the contract?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches into his file cabinet and pulls out another folder. This one is sealed with a red wax stamp.
"Your mother and Charles Sinclair signed this agreement sixteen years ago," he says slowly, breaking the seal. "It states that you and Adrian Sinclair would be engaged when you both came of age. The engagement would be formalized when you turned eighteen, with the wedding to take place at a mutually agreed upon time."
He slides the contract across the desk. I pick it up and read it, even though I already know what it says. I found out about this contract in the original timeline when I was nineteen, after Dad finally "introduced" me to Adrian. By then, Dad had already tried to push Vanessa toward Adrian for a year, but it didn't work. Adrian knew about the contract. He was just waiting for me.
"Your father buried this," Reeves says quietly. "He never told you about it. I suspect he was hoping it would expire or be forgotten so he could—"
"So he could match Vanessa with Adrian instead," I finish. "Adrian Sinclair is twenty-two now. His company is growing. In a few years, he'll be one of the richest men in the country. Dad wants that connection for Vanessa, not me."
Reeves nods slowly. "That would be my assessment, yes."
I set the contract down on the desk. "Activate it. Contact the Sinclair family. Tell them Elena Hartwell is ready to honor the engagement."
"Miss Hartwell—"
"Do it today. I want this formalized before my father can interfere."
Reeves looks at me for a long moment. "Are you sure about this? An arranged marriage is—"
"I'm sure." I stand up, smoothing down my skirt. "How long will it take?"
"If I contact Adrian Sinclair's attorney this morning... a few hours, perhaps. But Miss Hartwell, you should meet him first, discuss this with him—"
"Then arrange a meeting."
Reeves sighs, but he nods. "Very well. I'll make the calls."
"Good." I pick up my purse. "Send me copies of everything—the audit, the emancipation petition, the Sinclair contract. I want documentation of all of it."
"Of course."
I'm halfway to the door when Reeves calls out, "Miss Hartwell?"
I turn back.
"Your mother would be proud of you," he says quietly.
My throat tightens. I just nod and walk out.
I make it to my car before my hands start shaking.
I sit in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, and let myself breathe. The morning sun is too bright. The parking lot is too quiet.
I just declared war on my own family.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out.
Six missed calls from Dad. Three from Claire. Two voicemails.
I don't listen to them. I know what they say.
Instead, I start the car and drive home.
Home. The Hartwell estate. It won't be home much longer.
The gate is open when I arrive. I park in the circular driveway and walk inside, my heels clicking on the marble floor.
Claire is waiting in the foyer. Her face is red, her eyes watery. She's wearing a silk robe even though it's eleven in the morning, and her perfectly manicured hands are clutched to her chest.
"Elena," she gasps. "Thank God you're home. Your father has been so worried—"
"Where is he?" I ask.
"In his office. Elena, sweetie, what's going on? Why did you go to that lawyer? Your father said—"
I walk past her without answering. Down the hall, past the sitting room and the dining room, to the heavy oak door of Dad's office.
I don't knock. I just push it open.
Dad is behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. Vanessa is sitting in one of the chairs across from him, her legs crossed, looking perfectly composed in a white sundress.
They both look up when I walk in.
"I'll call you back," Dad says into the phone. He hangs up and stands. "Elena. We need to talk."
"Yes, we do."
Claire rushes in behind me. "Richard, I tried to—"
"Close the door," Dad says.
Claire does. The four of us are alone now.
Dad walks around his desk. He's a tall man, broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a face that's used to getting what it wants. He's wearing one of his expensive suits, the kind he buys with my mother's money.
"Sit down," he says.
"I'll stand."
His jaw tightens. "Elena, I don't know what James Reeves told you, but—"
"He told me you've stolen eight million dollars from my trust fund."
Claire gasps. Vanessa's eyes widen.
Dad's face goes red. "That is a serious accusation—"
"It's the truth." I pull out my phone and open the photos I took of Reeves' spreadsheet. I hold it up so he can see. "Every withdrawal, every transfer. All documented. Eight million dollars over three years, marked as educational expenses and living costs."
"That money was spent on you—"
"Bullshit." The word comes out hard and sharp. Claire actually flinches. "I have a scholarship. I live at home. My car was a gift from my grandmother before she died. So where did the money go, Dad?"
He opens his mouth, but I don't let him speak.
"I'll tell you where it went. It went to Vanessa's car. Her clothes. Her parties. Her lifestyle." I turn to look at my stepsister. She's staring at me, her face pale. "How much did your eighteenth birthday party cost, Vanessa? The one at the country club with the live band and the designer dress? Fifty thousand? More?"
"Elena," Claire says, her voice trembling, "how can you say such things? Vanessa is your sister—"
"Half of my mother's jewelry is in Vanessa's room." I cut her off. "The sapphire necklace. The diamond earrings. The pearl bracelet. All of it was left to me. All of it is on Vanessa's dresser right now."
Vanessa's face goes white.
Dad takes a step toward me. "You had no right to go into Vanessa's room—"
"I had every right. That jewelry is mine. And I want it back."
"Elena, please," Claire is crying now, real tears this time. "After everything we've done for you, how can you be so selfish? We're a family—"
"We're not a family," I say flatly. "You married my father for his money. You manipulated him into giving everything to your daughter. You've been stealing from me for three years."
"How dare you—"
"I'm done." I turn back to Dad. "I'm filing for emancipation. I'm taking control of my inheritance. I'm moving out."
Dad's face is purple now. "You ungrateful—you'll get nothing from me. Nothing!"
"I don't need anything from you. I already have everything from Mom."
"You think you can survive on your own? You're eighteen years old. You've never worked a day in your life—"
"Then I'll learn." I meet his eyes. "I'm going to Oxford, by the way. I confirmed my enrollment this morning."
The room goes dead silent.
Vanessa stands up slowly. "What?"
"Oxford. The university I was accepted to. The one you wanted me to give up so you could—what was Dad's plan? Let you go to the local university and then somehow transfer to Oxford later? Or was he going to buy your way in?"
"Elena," Dad's voice is low and dangerous, "we are having a family meeting tomorrow to discuss—"
"There's nothing to discuss. I'm going. The decision is made."
"Like hell it is! You will not—"
"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."
Dad slams his hand on the desk. "You live in MY house! You drive a car that I pay insurance on! You eat food that I buy! If you walk out that door, don't expect to come crawling back!"
"I won't." I turn to leave.
"Wait," Vanessa's voice stops me. I look back at her. She's standing now, her hands clenched at her sides. "Why are you doing this? I thought—we were sisters. I thought you cared about me."
For a moment, just a moment, I see the girl who killed me. The one who smiled as I died. The one who wanted everything I had and took it without remorse.
"You're right," I say quietly. "I did care about you. That was my mistake."
I walk out.
Behind me, Claire is sobbing. Dad is shouting. Vanessa is silent.
I go upstairs to my room and pack. I don't take much—just clothes, my laptop, some photos of my mother. Everything else can stay.
It takes me twenty minutes.
When I come back downstairs with my suitcase, Dad is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
"If you leave now," he says, "you're not my daughter anymore."
I look at him. This man who I trusted. Who I believed when he said he was managing my money responsibly. Who I defended when Reeves tried to warn me.
"Good," I say.
I walk past him and out the door.
I load my suitcase into my car, get in, and drive away.
I don't look back.
The hotel room is nice. Not extravagant, but clean and quiet. I check in using the credit card Reeves gave me this morning—a card linked to what's left of my trust fund, now that he's frozen my father's access.
I sit on the bed and stare at the wall.
It's done. I actually did it.
I left.
My phone is buzzing constantly. Calls from Dad, from Claire, from Vanessa. I turn it on silent and set it face-down on the nightstand.
Then it buzzes with a different pattern. A text from an unknown number.
I pick it up.
Miss Hartwell, this is Adrian Sinclair. I received word of our engagement arrangement from your attorney this afternoon. I'd like to meet to discuss this matter. Are you available tomorrow at 2 PM?
I stare at the message.
Adrian Sinclair.
In my past life, I didn't meet him until I was nineteen. Dad arranged it, reluctantly, after Adrian's attorney pressured him about the contract. Our first meeting was awkward. We had dinner at an expensive restaurant, barely spoke, and agreed to a formal engagement that neither of us wanted.
We were engaged for seven years before we got married. Seven years of a cold, distant relationship. Seven years of him working constantly and me trying to be the perfect fiancée who didn't ask for too much.
It wasn't until I was twenty-six that things changed. He came home from a business trip early and found me in his study, reading one of his contract proposals. I'd been studying business in my spare time, trying to understand his work. He was surprised. We talked for hours that night.
That was when he finally saw me. Really saw me.
And by the time he proposed properly, by the time he finally loved me, Vanessa killed me.
But this is different now. He's reaching out immediately. He wants to meet.
Something is different.
I look at the message again. My fingers hover over the screen.
This is what I wanted. This is part of the plan. I need Adrian's protection, his resources, his future empire.
I type back:
I'll be there. Send me the address.
His response comes immediately:
Donovan's. 2 PM. I'll make a reservation.
Donovan's. I know that restaurant. It's where he takes important business meetings. Private rooms, expensive wine, total discretion.
He's treating this like a business deal.
Good. So am I.
I set the phone down and lie back on the bed.
Tomorrow I meet Adrian Sinclair, ten years early.
Tomorrow I secure my future.
Tomorrow I make sure Vanessa loses everything she ever wanted.
I close my eyes and let myself smile.
This is just the beginning.