POV: Brielle
I delete Vivienne's text without responding.
She thinks she can scare me? Track me? Control me like everyone else in my life has tried to do?
Not anymore.
My hands shake as I put my phone face-down on the cafe table. I can't think about New York right now. Can't think about three men who never wanted me. Can't think about the life I left behind.
I have exactly one focus: survival.
And step one? Money.
I pull up the bank information my grandmother left me. Fifty million dollars is good for running away. But it's not enough to build a real empire. Not enough to make them all sorry.
I need more. I need power.
My grandmother's letter mentioned documents at a private bank. Something about "everything you need to take what's yours."
I grab my laptop and search for the address. Banca di Milano. Old, exclusive, the kind of place that only deals with people who have serious money.
Good thing I'm one of them now.
I throw cash on the table for my espresso and head out into Milan's streets. The morning sun is bright and warm. People rush past me, speaking rapid Italian, living their normal lives.
Nobody knows who I am here. Nobody expects anything from me.
It feels like freedom and loneliness all mixed together.
The bank is a twenty-minute walk. My phone buzzes three more times—calls from my parents now—but I ignore them all. They don't get to know where I am. They don't get to pull me back into that world.
The bank is beautiful but intimidating. Marble floors. High ceilings. Guards at every door.
I walk up to the front desk, trying to look confident. "I need to access a safety deposit box. My grandmother, Victoria SaintClair, left it for me."
The woman's eyes widen slightly at the name. "Of course. One moment please."
She disappears into a back office. Returns with an older man in an expensive suit.
"Signorina SaintClair?" he says warmly. "I am Marco Rossi. Your grandmother was a dear friend. She said you would come someday, though I hoped it would be under happier circumstances."
My throat tightens. "How did you know it wouldn't be happy?"
"Because she only left those instructions for emergencies." His eyes are kind but sad. "Come. Let us get you what you need."
He leads me through security doors and down a hallway lined with safety deposit boxes. We stop at one marked "VS-1947"—my grandmother's initials and birth year.
Marco hands me a key. "She left very specific instructions. Whatever you find in this box, she wanted you to know: you were always meant for greatness. The world just wasn't ready for you yet."
Tears sting my eyes. I blink them away. "Thank you."
He leaves me alone in the private viewing room.
I slide the key into the lock with shaking hands. The box opens with a soft click.
Inside: folders. Legal documents. Letters in my grandmother's handwriting. And one envelope on top marked "READ FIRST" in bold letters.
I tear it open. Her familiar handwriting fills the page:
My darling Brielle,
If you're reading this, something has gone terribly wrong. The people you trusted have hurt you. The family that should have protected you has failed you. And now you're running.
Good.
You needed to break before you could become who you were meant to be. I'm sorry it had to hurt so much. But diamonds are made under pressure, darling.
Now listen carefully: You are not powerless. You never were.
I've left you controlling interest in SaintClair Holdings—51% of shares. The company is YOURS. Not your father's. Not the board's. Yours.
Your father doesn't know. I hid it from him deliberately. He would have used this against you, controlled you with it. But I wanted you to discover it when you were ready to claim it.
You are the PRIMARY heir. The CEO if you want it. The queen of an empire.
The documents in this box prove everything. My will. The share certificates. Legal papers that override anything your father might claim.
Use this power wisely. Build yourself back up. Become the woman I always knew you could be.
And remember: never let anyone make you feel small again. You were born to wear a crown, darling.
So crown yourself.
All my love,Grandmother Victoria
I read it twice. Then three times. Then I start laughing.
I laugh so hard tears stream down my face. I laugh until I can't breathe. I laugh because it's either that or scream.
I'm not just a runaway heiress. I'm the OWNER of a multibillion-dollar company. I have controlling interest. I have POWER.
And nobody knows.
My hands shake as I pull out the documents. Share certificates. Legal papers. My grandmother's original will—the real one, not the fake one my father probably has.
It's all here. Proof that I own 51% of SaintClair Holdings.
My father controls 30%. The board controls the rest. But I can override all of them if I want.
I sit back in my chair, stunned.
This changes everything.
I'm not running away anymore. I'm planning a takeover.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, ready to throw it across the room if it's my parents again.
But it's not. It's an email. From Adriana Moretti at Moretti Fashion House—the company I sent my resume to this morning on a whim.
Ms. Winters,
We were impressed by your credentials and would like to offer you a consulting position immediately. One of our divisions is failing, and we believe your expertise could save it. Can you start today?
Fee: 2 million euros plus 20% equity in the division you fix.
Please respond ASAP.
I stare at the email. A job offer. Already. In less than six hours in Milan.
This is the universe telling me I made the right choice.
I type back: I accept. Send me the address. I'll be there in an hour.
Her response is instant: Perfect. We're at Via Montenapoleone 8. Ask for me at reception.
I gather all my grandmother's documents, lock them back in the safety deposit box, and walk out of the bank with my head high.
Elle Winters has a job. Elle Winters has power. Elle Winters is building an empire.
And Brielle SaintClair? She's going to take back everything that was stolen from her.
I'm halfway to Moretti Fashion House when my phone rings. Unknown number. Again.
I almost don't answer. But something—instinct, curiosity, stupidity—makes me pick up.
"Hello?"
Heavy breathing. Then a voice I don't recognize: "Miss SaintClair. Or should I say, Miss Winters?"
My blood runs cold. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows your secret. About the shares. About your grandmother's will. About what you're planning."
I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk. People flow around me like water around a stone.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. Yet. I'm just calling to warn you—you're not the only one who knows about those shares. Your father suspects something. He's been digging through your grandmother's records for months."
"How do you know this?"
"Because I work for him. Worked, actually. Past tense. He fired me last week when I refused to help him forge a new will that would give him controlling interest."
My heart pounds. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because your grandmother was kind to me once. And because your father is a bastard who deserves what's coming." The voice softens. "Be careful, Miss Winters. He's dangerous when cornered. And you just cornered him without even knowing it."
"Wait—"
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone pressed to my ear, my whole body shaking.
My father knows. Or at least suspects. And if he's desperate enough to forge a will...
What else is he willing to do?
I'm still standing there when a black car pulls up beside me. Tinted windows. Expensive. Wrong.
The back window rolls down.
And Thane Korven stares at me from the back seat.
"Hello, Brielle," he says quietly. "We need to talk."