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I swallowed, nodding.
“Don’t fret just yet. Nash’s home experience was mighty different than yours with your mama and granddaddy,” Mama said. “He’s still struggling with accepting Steve.”
I nodded, and as much as I wanted to lower my head to the table and cry, I rose to help Ike with the large red toolbox he struggled to carry. Today, spending time with him would be enough.
I just wasn’t sure how Nash and I would navigate tomorrow. Panic pulsed between each rapid heartbeat because once again it felt like there were differences in our lifestyle choices and ways of seeing happiness, the future, that might be too big to surmount.
After Ike and I had launched the rocket, I’d welcomed the rest of the afternoon alone. In the meeting earlier, I’d asked my solicitor in London to send me a copy of my mother’s will, which was now pulled up on my computer. I’d hoped the legalese might take my mind off of Nash’s brusque dismissal of ever having a family, but so far, it wasn’t working.
Halfway through, I looked away from the document and rubbed my forehead. The clause about my marriage still spun through my head.
Why had my mother written her last document this way? Her love for Nash had been great, but she never would have pushed me into a relationship I didn’t want. She’d lived the fallout from that choice.
So…I was missing something.
Something I feared had to do with Nash’s Pop Syad and my Jeddi. The two of them had wanted us to meet in Paris at that international school. Instead, Nash’s mother had insisted he stay in Austin. Then my mother had brought us here because our grandfathers had wanted Nash and me together. So much so that that I wouldn’t have full access to my trust unless Nash Porter and I had a child together, and then, a portion of the money would remain in a trust for my children with Nash Porter, divided evenly among them.
If we couldn’t conceive naturally, we had ten years past my thirty-fifth birthday to adopt. If I married a man other than Nash Porter, I would receive one-half of the two-point-two billion pounds that had sat in the account at the time of my mother’s death. It was now closer to five billion, according to my solicitor’s note accompanying the document. If I remained unmarried at thirty-five, the bulk of my trust turned over to various nonprofits, though I still remained a wealthy woman.
Billions. So much money. Ridiculous money.
No one needed that kind of wealth. Yet I had it.
I’d never bothered to find out the exact amount, just as I’d never worried too much about my father’s spending.
Now, I scrutinized both. The Aldringham estate made a decent annual profit, yet my father had siphoned more than half of my monthly allowance for his expenditures—until I’d stopped him. That’s when he’d become serious about me marrying. No wonder he remained so angry about my rebellion.
After a long internal debate, I took a breath and pulled up my solicitor’s email address.
Dear Mr. Floyd,
I would greatly appreciate you forwarding this message along to Ms. Lindsay Herrington-Smythe. Discretion is of the utmost importance, though I wish you, too, to be aware of my concerns.
Even after my attempts to remove my father, Lord Aldringham, from my accounts, he’s managed to continue siphoning to the tune of another three-hundred-thousand pounds this year. Please inform him that he no longer has access to my accounts, and make sure that is the case. Should Ms. Herrington-Smythe look more closely at Lord Seymour’s accounts, my guess is she’ll find him in debt to my father. I have no idea how much, but I think that was the true reason for the offer of engagement made to me by Lord Seymour.
I highly recommend she take great care to protect her fortune and her future, should she continue to have further acquaintance with Lord Seymour, as I do believe my father might well become ruthless in his desire for funds, especially once his motions for access to my accounts fail in the coming weeks.
I’d also like my next quarter’s allowance sent to me directly via cheque, so there is no ambiguity about who is in possession.
Warmest regards,
Aya J. Aldringham
I closed out of the program before shutting my new laptop. I tapped the lid, wondering if I’d handled that situation correctly. Lindsay had changed the course of my life, but she’d shown me kindness in London, and she’d seemed to want to make amends for her actions back in high school. Regardless, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if she ended up miserable because she hadn’t had all the information I could have provided.
So ultimately, this was the right decision—the only choice I could make. A small smile tipped the corners of my mouth. I felt more settled, more self-confident than I had in…years.
Part of me wanted to just give a lump sum to my father and be done with him, but I knew he wouldn’t leave me alone, even if I did. He’d managed to develop a lifestyle much above his means, and he’d long planned to use my inheritance to fund it—either by emotional manipulation or, since that had failed, through a marriage agreement with Alistair.
Mostly, though, I was irked that my relationship with my father even bothered me. I was happy here in Austin. Despite the hard work of trying to move forward—or perhaps partially because of it—being with Nash made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years. I enjoyed my coursework and getting to know Jenna and Kate. Yet my mind kept snagging on the sharp edges of my family.
I re-read the child clause in the will. Well, if Nash didn’t want kids, the money would go to charity and do more good than it would sitting in a bank account. There was really nothing here to be bothered with—apart from the ridiculousness of the clause in the first place.
Still, a niggle of worry slithered through my mind. Nash and I were already in a difficult place where having kids (or not) was concerned. Should I tell him about this? He worried about secrets between us, but this could be like lighter fluid on an already smoldering situation. But if I didn’t tell him, would that make me part of the problem? Would it indicate a lack of trust? I dropped my head into my palms.
“Well, that’s not what I hoped to see.”
I lifted my head and smiled at Mama Grace. “I’m in a bit of a pickle,” I said as I turned in the chair to face the door.
