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Eighty seven billion dollars.
One dead New York business mogul.
No heirs.
No wives.
No relatives.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
Not hers yet.
He doesn’t deserve them.
He doesn’t know what to do with them.
She does.
She always has.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
He’s overwhelmed.
She’s prepared.
That will should have had her name.
Not his.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
His looks are a bonus.
Her looks are her weapon.
He’s fighting a losing battle against his heart.
He doesn’t know it yet.
Eighty seven billion dollars.
She gets everything she wants.
He’s what she wants.
Love has nothing to do with it.
To get to where you’re going, sometimes
you need to step on a few people to get there.
Good thing her heels are sharp.
What was in the will? It was driving Cedar crazy, even
though she would never, ever admit to it. The day at work had flown by—between
the interview, meetings, and her and Cecil calling and calling and calling to
arrange the biggest goddamn show of a funeral that New York had ever seen. And
through the whole day, all Cedar thought about was the will.
He probably left money to his housekeepers, they had
kept their mouths shut through a hell of a lot of the shit that comes along
when you have more money than God. And just because he was dead, it didn’t mean
he wanted anyone writing any tell-alls about working for him. Harold Feingold
on paper was a saint, and nobody who worked for him was going to be the one to
change that. Mr. Morris was hired for life, and he was hired to make sure
nobody decided that Harold Feingold’s death would be a good reason to talk
about what actually happened in the house.
Money to… who else? Cedar had no idea. Maybe some to
charities, just so people wouldn’t talk. Some for the gallery, even though it
had been earning its costs since Cedar had opened it.
But the bulk of it, she had not a fucking clue.
Cedar stripped in her bedroom, and walked to the
connecting bathroom. The bathtub was already full, and she stepped in slowly,
sinking into the bubbling foam. A glass of wine was on a tray, along with her
vibrator, cucumber slices, and an eye mask. Her housekeeper had left a few
minutes before, and Cedar was blessedly alone in her house. She was free for
the evening, something she hadn’t planned on. But Harold’s death was more
important than the party she was supposed to be going to tonight, and she had
to show that.
She was going to soak in the bath until her skin
pruned, she was going to drink wine, and she was not going to answer her phone
at all. She could say it was because she was so upset about Harold’s death, but
really, it wasn’t. He was old, and old people died. It was upsetting, yes, but
not as upsetting as she made it out to be.
If she didn’t inherit at least a large share of his
estate, she was going to be upset.
Upset was going to be the mildest word to describe how
she would feel.
Cedar was twenty six years old, and had been close to
Harold since the day she turned eighteen. Eight years of being his protégé and
of being the only sort of confidant he had should be more than enough to
inherit.
She sank back into the bubbles, but not enough to get
her hair wet. She was going to relax for now. She could worry about everything
later. She had time.
KK Hendin's Bio:
KK Hendin’s real life ambition is to become a pink fluffy unicorn who dances with rainbows. But
the schooling for that is all sorts of complicated, so until that gets sorted out, she’ll just write.
Preferably things with angst and love. And things that require chocolate.
KK spends way too much time on Twitter (where she can be found as @kkhendin), and rambles
on occasion over at
www.kkhendinwrites.blogspot.com.
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