The Inheritance Games: Chapters 26–40

I dragged my finger over the middle name with which Tobias Hawthorne had signed Jameson’s missive, then looked at the initials scrawled on mine.

“Is it still a lie,” Jameson asked loftily, “if you’re masking what matters, but what you’re saying is technically true?”

I glanced at Oren, but his face was impassive, like he couldn’t hear anything that passed between us.

“You want the money.” Grayson Hawthorne looked down at me from on high. “How could you not, growing up the way you did?”
That was just dripping with condescension.

“Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll find it. Every last secret. Within days, I’ll have a detailed dossier on every person in your life. Your sister. Your father. Your mother—”

To that end, we are providing the press with the results of a genetic test that proves conclusively that, contrary to the libelous reports and speculation circulating in the tabloids, Avery Grambs is not the result of infidelity on the part of our father, who was faithful to his beloved wife, our mother, for the entirety of their marriage.

“They know, of course, that they stand to lose a great deal by challenging the will. Zara’s debts are substantial, and they won’t be cleared if she files a suit. What Zara and Constantine don’t know, and what my father will make very clear to them, is that even if a judge were to rule Mr. Hawthorne’s latest will to be null and void, the distribution of his estate would then be governed by his prior will, and that will left the Hawthorne family even less than this one.”

“Couldn’t Zara and Skye have their lawyer argue that the old will was invalid, too?” I asked. “Written under duress, or he was mad with grief, or something like that?”

Emblazoned on all of it—the balls, the lanes, the touch screen, the monitors—was an elaborate letter H.

He'd changed after his workout, donning a stiff collared shirt like armor.

“Can't an older brother spend time with his younger brother and an interloper of dubious intentions without getting the third degree?”

Because part of any winning strategy, long-term, was knowing when to play to your opponent’s expectations and when to subvert them.

“It's up to the interloper of dubious intentions.”

“I am not threatened.” He wasn’t imposing physically.

Jameson was a showman at heart. He removed the cover with a flourish and tossed me the book.

Jameson took the book gingerly from my hands and carefully removed the square from the book.

I had no idea how much money this book was worth, or how much of its value had been squandered with that one little circle on the page—but I knew in my bones that we were onto something.

That got me a censuring look from the linebacker. “Do you hate your hair and want it to suffer?”

“It’s not just clothing. It’s a message. You’re not deciding what to wear. You’re deciding what story you want your image to tell. Are you the ingenue, young and sweet? Do you dress to this world of wealth and wonders like you were born to it, or do you want to walk the line: the same but different, young but full of steel?”

I was instructed on the finer points of an elaborate facial regimen and found myself on the receiving end of a spray tan via airbrush, but they kept my makeup minimal: eyes and lips, nothing more.

Zara announced her presence with next to no fanfare.

I wasn’t naive enough to believe that she’d had a sudden change of heart.

Zara smiled placidly. “Compound interest is a lovely thing.”

Even if taxes took half of the estate, and I only averaged a four-percent yield—I’d still be making nearly a billion dollars a year.

“I draw a salary commensurate with the skills I bring.”

As satisfying as it would have been to tell her that her services would no longer be needed, I wasn’t that impulsive, and I wasn’t cruel.

“You’re young enough,” Zara said, her voice almost wistful, "to believe that money solves all ills.”

Nash’s use of the
 nickname—his amiable smile and equally amiable tone—sucked every ounce of oxygen out of the room.

“That doesn’t sound horrible.”
“It doesn’t, does it?” Nash said, ruminating on those words.

Jameson pushed the bathroom door inward, and I was greeted by the sight of the biggest bathtub I’d ever seen in my life, sitting up on a dais.

“I’m covered in bubbles,” Skye replied airily. “It doesn’t get any more decent than that. Now, tell your mother what you need.”

“Oh, don’t be a prude, Abigail,” Skye admonished from inside the bathroom. “We're all friends here, aren’t we? I make it a policy to befriend everyone who steals my birthright.”

“Oh, don’t be a prude, Abigail,” Skye admonished from inside the bathroom. “We're all friends here, aren’t we? I make it a policy to befriend everyone who steals my birthright.”

“There’s only so much one can do with Mercury in retrograde, but...”

“You will, of course, continue to provide me a modest amount of financial support.”

I expected a sharp comeback, but all I got was an indulgent little hum, like I was the one being ridiculous here.

Alisa had given me the gist but very few details.

She held the glass up, as if she were toasting me—or toasting to my demise.

He ran his fingers over a plethora of keys, then selected one.

Adrenaline. Euphoria. Fear. There wasn’t room in my head for anything else. Speed was the only thing that mattered.