Read Chapter 36: The Inheritance

The chapel in Geneva was small, stone-cold, and filled with people Julian didn’t seem to know. Maren sat in the second pew, close enough to reach him but far enough to feel the distance. He wore a black coat she’d never seen, shoulders squared, jaw tight, a man holding himself together with willpower alone.

Arthur’s service was brief. A eulogy from an old colleague, a prayer from a priest who read the name wrong twice. Julian didn’t flinch. Maren watched his hands—clenched, knuckles white—and wished she could reach them. But they were in public, in front of a dead man’s acquaintances, and she didn’t know the rules for this kind of grief.

Afterward, a solicitor approached. A thin man with a briefcase and a practiced, sympathetic face. He asked them to wait.

“There’s one final letter,” he said. “My client requested it be delivered to you both, together, immediately following the service.”

Julian’s jaw tightened further. Maren touched his arm. He didn’t pull away.

The envelope was cream-colored, heavy paper, sealed with wax. Julian opened it carefully, as if it might burn him. The letter inside was handwritten, the script shaky but legible.

*My dearest son, and my dearest Maren—*

Maren’s breath caught. Julian read aloud, voice low, steady, breaking only on the pauses.

*I have watched you both from a distance this winter. I know what I did. I separated you. I kept you apart, out of fear. My secrets were heavy, and I believed they would crush anyone I loved. I thought if you never became close, you would never be hurt by what I carried.*

*I was wrong. Clara loved you, Maren, and she loved your grandmother’s house. And Julian, you have always been my greatest regret and my greatest pride. I should have told you everything while I had the chance.*

*I am sorry. For the years I stole from you. For the fear I handed you like an heirloom. But I know what you are to each other now—I saw it, even when you did not. My final gift is not an apology. It is a direction.*

*Find the library.*

Julian stopped. The paper trembled in his hands.

Maren’s throat closed. “The library,” she repeated.

“The inn,” Julian said. “There’s a library.”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of a new will. Mr. Ashworth amended it last autumn.”

“Last autumn?” Julian’s voice was sharp. “He was dying then.”

“He was,” the solicitor agreed. “He knew. He made arrangements. The full document will be read upon the fulfillment of a condition, but I can tell you this much: the inn in Vermont, the Wintermere estate, is no longer solely Maren’s.”

Maren felt the floor shift. “What?”

“The estate is to be held jointly. The condition is… specific.”

They waited.

“You must marry within one year of Mr. Ashworth’s passing,” the solicitor said, “or the property will be dissolved and donated to a historical society.”

Silence.

Julian stared at the letter. Maren stared at the floor. Outside, snow began to fall, a gentle Geneva dusting, so different from Vermont’s heavy storms.

“That’s—” Maren started.

“Blackmail,” Julian finished. “From beyond the grave.”

“He knew,” Maren said, incredulous. “He knew we—he couldn’t have known.”

“He saw us,” Julian said quietly. “He wrote that he saw us.”

Maren thought of all those weeks, the inn’s walls holding secrets, Clara’s letters still unread under her bed. Arthur had been watching from half a world away, and he had seen more than they had been willing to say.

The solicitor handed over a key. Tarnished, old, a lion’s head engraved on the bow.

“The library is yours to search,” he said. “The rest of the will is straightforward—personal effects to various beneficiaries, but the property and its contents are the heart of the matter.”

They left the chapel and rode back to the hotel in silence. Julian held the letter in one hand, the key in the other. Maren sat close. Snow streaked the window.

“He kept us apart,” Julian said finally. “All those years, I thought he just didn’t care. But he cared too much. He was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That his sins would become ours.” Julian’s voice cracked. “He never understood. We don’t inherit sins. We inherit choices.”

Maren reached for his hand. This time, he let her hold it.

The flight back to Vermont was long, the roads from Burlington snow-choked, the inn glowing amber when they pulled into the drive. Lily’s rental car was gone—she’d left a note on the desk, saying she’d needed to head home early and would call soon. The inn was empty. Natasha’s room was cleared out. She’d left no forwarding address.

They went to the library together. The fireplace was cold. Maren lit it while Julian walked the shelves, running his fingers along the spines as if he could feel his father’s presence in the leather and dust.

“Arthur always said the library was the soul of a house,” Julian murmured. “He built this one with books he never read.”

“But he left something here,” Maren said. “He knew we’d come.”

They searched for an hour. Behind the desk, under the floorboards, inside a hollowed-out atlas. It was Maren who found it—behind a row of first editions on the top shelf, wedged between two volumes of Dickens, a drawer carved into the wall. The key fit perfectly.

Inside was a single document, bound with a red ribbon.

*The Last Will and Testament*, it read, *of Arthur James Ashworth.*

Julian read it aloud. The provisions were simple: the inn would pass to Maren Cole and Julian Ashworth, jointly, with equal shares. A living trust. The mortgage paid off. Funds for maintenance, conservatorship, and the surrounding land.

And one final clause.

*“The full enjoyment of this inheritance shall not vest until the named beneficiaries are lawfully married to one another. If this condition is not met within one year of my death, the property will be offered to the Vermont Historical Society, to be maintained as a museum to the memory of Clara Whitmore.”*

Julian let the will fall. It landed on the carpet, fanning out like a confession.

“He wanted Clara’s memory kept,” Maren said softly.

“He wanted us together.” Julian’s laugh was hollow, disbelieving. “My father manipulated us into falling in love, and when that didn’t work fast enough, he manipulated us into marrying.”

Maren stared at him. The fire crackled. Snow piled against the windowpanes.

“We were going to tell each other anyway,” she said quietly. “Before the news about your father, we were about to—we said we’d take things slow.”

“Slow,” Julian repeated. He stepped closer. “We have one year.”

“That’s not slow.”

“It’s fast,” he agreed. “But it’s not the worst reason to marry.”

Her heart hammered. “Is that a proposal?”

“No.” He reached for her hand, held it against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, quick as hers. “This is me saying that I was already going to ask you. Arthur just got there first.”

The firelight flickered across his face—grief, and relief, and something tender underneath.

Maren laughed, a wet, broken sound. “Your father is impossible.”

“He was,” Julian said. “He was impossible. He loved us anyway.”