A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.
You think you’ve won?
My fingers went numb.
Another message followed.
Ask your father why your mother left you so little money.
I stared at the words.
My mother hadn’t left me little money.
At least, that was what I had always believed.
When she died, my father told me that she had made arrangements for my future.
He said I would always be taken care of.
I had never questioned him.
A third message appeared.
Ask him what happened to the Bennett inheritance.
I stood so quickly that my hairbrush fell to the floor.
The Bennett inheritance?
I had never heard those words before.
My father had inherited the family business from his own father, but I had never known there was money set aside specifically for me.
I rushed downstairs.
The study door was open, and warm light spilled into the hallway.
My father sat behind his desk, speaking to someone on the phone.
“Yes,” he said.
“I want every transfer traced back to its original source.””
I froze.
He listened for several seconds.
Then his expression darkened.
“Six years?””
My heart began to pound.
“What do you mean, the payments stopped six years ago?””
He fell silent.
The person on the other end spoke again.
My father stood abruptly.
“No.
That’s impossible.
I personally approved the trust for Nia before my wedding.””
I gripped the banister.
A trust.
My trust.
The money Vanessa had mentioned.
My father continued, his voice growing sharper.
“Then send me the original documents.
I want the beneficiary information, the withdrawal records, and the signature authorizations.””
He ended the call and stood motionless behind his desk.
I stepped into the doorway.
“Daddy?””
He turned.
For a second, I saw something in his eyes that frightened me.
Not anger.
Not disappointment.
Fear.
“Sweetheart,” he said carefully, “how long have you been standing there?””
“Long enough to hear about the trust.””
He closed his eyes.
I took a step closer.
“What trust?””
He pulled out a chair.
“Come sit down.””
I sat.
Chapter 4: The Fortune Hidden Under My Name
My father placed the blue folder on the desk between us.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
I stared at my name printed across the cover, tracing the letters with my eyes as though they belonged to someone else.
“Nia Bennett,” I whispered.
My father pulled his chair closer.
“Yes, sweetheart.
It’s yours.””
I looked up at him.
“What’s inside?””
“Documents establishing a trust for your future.
Your mother and I created it before she died.
It was meant to provide for your education, your health, and your life as an adult.””
“How much money?””
He hesitated.
That hesitation frightened me.
“Daddy?””
“Your mother inherited a substantial amount from her family.
She wanted to make sure you would never have to depend on anyone else for your future.””
He opened the folder.
Inside were legal documents, bank statements, and a photograph of my mother holding me as a baby.
I reached for the photograph first.
She was sitting in a garden, wearing a pale blue dress.
I was nestled in her arms, my tiny fingers curled around her necklace.
She was smiling at me.
I had almost forgotten what that smile looked like.
My eyes filled with tears.
“Why have I never seen this before?””
My father swallowed.
“I thought everything was being handled properly.””
He turned to the financial statements.
“The trust was established when you were two.
Your mother contributed money from her inheritance, and I added to it over the years.
The account was supposed to cover your needs until you turned twenty-five, with provisions for education and other major expenses.””
I looked at the figures.
They seemed unreal.
There were more zeroes than I could count without losing my place.
“Is all of that money mine?””
“It was established for your benefit, yes.””
“Then why do I have to wear Ava’s old clothes?””
My father lowered his head.
I had never seen him struggle to answer a question before.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.””
He turned another page.
Then he stopped.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
“What is it?”” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
He picked up his phone and called someone.
“James, I need you to check the trust documents against the original bank records.
Yes, tonight.
There’s a discrepancy in the account history.””
He listened.
“No, don’t contact Vanessa.
Don’t discuss this with anyone in the house.
I want the records secured before we make any decisions.””
He ended the call.
I stared at him.
“Does Vanessa know about the money?””
My father looked toward the study door.
“I believe she does.””
“Did she spend it?””
“I don’t know yet.””
“But you said the payments stopped six years ago.””
He nodded slowly.
“That’s what the preliminary records indicate.””
Six years.
I was eight when Vanessa first told me I was a burden.
Eight when she made me promise not to tell my father about the things she said.
Eight when my winter coat became too small, and she told me I didn’t need a new one.
My hands began to tremble.
“Daddy, did she know I was supposed to have money?””
He reached across the desk and took my hand.
“We’ll get the truth, Nia.””
“What if she stole it?””
His expression hardened.
“Then she will answer for it.””
I wanted to feel relieved.
Instead, I felt sick.
Because the possibility that Vanessa had taken money intended for me meant that every humiliation, every denied request, and every morning I had gone to school pretending I wasn’t cold might have been part of something deliberate.
I had believed she was cruel because she didn’t love me.
What if she had also been using me?
My father closed the folder.
“It’s late.
You need to rest.””
“I can’t sleep.””
“I understand.””
He stood and walked around the desk.
“Then stay with me for a while.””
I moved to the sofa beside his desk, carrying the photograph of my mother.
He sat next to me, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel compelled to hide my tears.
“Daddy?””
“Yes, sweetheart?””
“Did Mommy know Vanessa would treat me like this?””
His face crumpled.
“No.””
“Would Mommy be disappointed in you?””
He took a shaky breath.
“I think she would be disappointed that I didn’t notice sooner.””
He looked at the photograph in my hands.
“But she would never be disappointed in you.””
I pressed the picture against my chest.
For the first time that night, I cried without apologizing.
The following morning, the mansion was unusually quiet.
I came downstairs wearing the same faded sweater, my hair loosely tied back with an old elastic band.
In the kitchen, the housekeeper, Mrs.
Collins, was preparing breakfast.
She had worked for our family since before my mother died.
Over the years, she had become the closest thing I had to a friend in the house.
When she saw me, she stopped cutting strawberries.
“Oh, sweetheart.””
She set down the knife and hurried over.
“I heard what happened yesterday.””
I lowered my eyes.
“I’m sorry you had to see it.””
Mrs.
Collins looked almost offended.
“Why on earth would you apologize for someone else’s behavior?””
I didn’t know what to say.
She gently touched my shoulder.
“Your mother would have wanted you to stand tall.””
My throat tightened.
“You remember her?””
“Every day.””
Mrs.
Collins led me to the kitchen table and placed a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit in front of me.
“Eat while it’s warm.””
I picked up my fork.
Then I noticed her watching me.
“Mrs.
Collins?””
“Yes?””
“Did Vanessa ever tell you not to give me things?””
Her expression changed.
She glanced toward the kitchen door.
“Why are you asking?””
“Please.
I need to know.””
She sat across from me.
“There were times when I wanted to buy you new clothes or prepare something special for your birthday.
Your stepmother would tell me that your father had instructed her to keep expenses down.””
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
“Daddy never told her that.””
“I know that now.””
Mrs.
Collins clasped her hands.