she repeated.
“His mansion in Manhattan, his collection of vintage cars, his investment portfolio. His estate is valued at sixty million dollars, Sophia, and it’s yours.”
I laughed. I actually laughed. It was a bitter, broken sound.
“That’s not possible. I barely knew him.”
“He knew you.”
Clara reached into her briefcase and pulled out a folder.
“He’s been watching you for years. He knew about your marriage, your divorce. He knew what Richard did to you, and he wanted you to have a second chance.”
My hands were shaking again. I took the folder, opened it, and saw documents with my name on them—legal papers, deeds, account statements with numbers I could not process.
“This is real,”
I whispered.
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