Elara Rivers hated hospitals.
The sharp smell of disinfectant. The silence thick with unspoken goodbyes. The way people looked at her like she didn't belong—because she didn't.
She stood by the door, arms crossed tightly, watching the man on the hospital bed take his final breath. She didn't know him. Never met him. Never even heard his name until yesterday. And yet, he called for her.
"Are you sure?" she whispered to the nurse beside her.
The woman nodded. "He asked for you. By name."
The man's eyes fluttered open—barely. One shaky finger pointed to a sealed envelope on the table. A nurse placed it in Elara's hand as the heart monitor gave one long beep.
Flatline.
Elara stood there frozen. A man she didn't know had died... and left her a letter.
Back in her tiny apartment, Elara sat on the edge of her bed. The letter trembled in her hands. She'd grown up scraping coins together, fighting off debt collectors, working double shifts just to keep the lights on. Her mother never told her who her father was. Said he was a mistake. A ghost.
But ghosts don't die in luxury suites on the top floor of Saint Vincent's Hospital.
She tore the letter open.
> To Elara Rivers,
If you are reading this, then I am gone.
I owe you everything, and gave you nothing. But that ends now.
You are my daughter. My only legal heir.
Go to the law firm of Kingsley & Moore. Show them this letter. Everything that once belonged to me... is now yours.
Elara's fingers went cold. Her eyes scanned the signature at the bottom.
Nicholas S. Thorne.
Billionaire. Business magnate. The same name she'd seen flash across finance magazines for years.
Elara laughed. A short, broken sound.
This had to be a mistake.
But she'd seen the man die.
And she was holding proof in her hands.