Chapter 2 - The Man in the Gray Suit
The meeting was set for ten o'clock at a private club in South Beach.
The air was thick with humidity,
and the smell of salt water followed me through the heavy oak doors.
Owen Rodgers was already there,
sitting at a corner table overlooking the pool.
He stood up as I approached,
buttoning his jacket with a slow,
deliberate grace.
"Mrs. Prescott,"
he said,
extending a hand.
"Thank you for coming."
His hand was warm,
his grip firm,
and for the first time in my life,
I felt seen.
Not as Harold's wife,
not as a charity organizer,
but as a person.
"You paid a lot of money for this conversation,
Mr. Rodgers,"
I said,
sliding into the chair opposite him.
"Two million dollars is quite an entrance fee."
Owen smiled,
a small,
sad curve of his lips.
"It was a bargain,"
he replied.
"I would have paid ten times that to keep you from staying on that stage one second longer."
I felt a lump form in my throat.
"Why?"
He leaned forward,
his eyes searching mine.
"Do you remember your mother,
Anastasia?"
The question caught me off guard.
"She died when I was five,"
I said.
"I barely remember her face."
"Her name was Clara Robbins,"
Owen said softly.
"But that wasn't the name she was born with."
"She was a Sterling."
I froze.
The Sterlings were a family of legends,
their name synonymous with the early gold and steel industries of the Northeast.
"That’s impossible,"
I whispered.
"We were poor."
"We lived in a trailer in Georgia."
"You were hidden,"
Owen corrected.
"Your mother ran away from a life she couldn't stand."
"She changed her name,"
"She cut all ties,"
"And she thought she had protected you from the burden of the Sterling legacy."
I looked out at the water,
my mind spinning.
"And who are you?"
"I was her lawyer,"
Owen said.
"And I was the man who loved her."
"For thirty years,"
"I have been looking for Clara’s daughter."
"The Sterling estate has been held in a blind trust since your grandfather died."
"It has been waiting for the rightful heir."
I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me.
"How much?"
Owen pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and pushed it across the table.
The number at the bottom had so many zeros that my eyes refused to count them.
It wasn't just millions.
It was billions.
"This is why you were looking for me?"
"No,"
Owen said,
reaching out to touch the back of my hand.
"I was looking for you because I promised Clara I would make sure you were happy."
"And when I saw that man auction you off last night,"
"I realized I had failed my promise."
I looked down at the paper,
then at the man who had changed my world.
"Harold knows,"
I said.
"He knows something is happening."
"He’s investigating you."
Owen's eyes turned hard,
like flint.
"Let him,"
he said.
"Harold Prescott is a small man with a loud voice."
"He has been living off your brilliance for twenty-seven years,"
"And he doesn't realize that the foundation he stands on is made of glass."
"Anastasia,"
"You don't have to go back to him."
I looked at the billions on the paper,
then I thought about the twenty dollars Harold had asked for.
"Oh,
I’m going back,"
I said,
a cold fire igniting in my chest.
May you like
"But I’m not going back as his wife."
"I’m going back to take what is mine."
