Page 59 of The Breakup Broker

Richard moved in his seat, his perfect mask of grief slipping for a moment. I recognized that look—the calculation behind the compassion. I’d seen it in countless clients who viewed relationships as transactions.

After the service, the crowd slowly dispersed into the crisp autumn afternoon. I lingered near the church steps, watching Henry accept more condolences with growing weariness. When Richard approached him, I moved closer, some protective instinct drawing me forward.

“Son,” Richard began, his voice pitched for maximum sympathy. “Your grandfather and I may have had our differences, but I want you to know?—”

“Save it.” Henry’s voice was quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “We both know exactly who you are and what you want. But this isn’t the time or place.”

Richard looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “Why is she here? This is a family matter.”

“Miss Honeysucker is included in the will,” Victoria said smoothly, satisfaction in her voice. “James was quite specific about her presence being required.”

The muscle in Richard’s jaw ticked—a tell I’d seen in countless clients when their perfect plans started unraveling. “Included in the...” His face flushed with barely contained rage. “She hardly knew him.”

“Quality over quantity, Richard dear,” Victoria said, her voice honey-sweet, but her eyes hard as diamonds. “The lawyer is waiting. We shouldn’t keep him.”

The will was read in Todd Whitman’s downtown office—a place that smelled of leather and old paper, its walls lined with leather-bound law books. I sat near the back again, watching Richard’s shoulders tense. His mask of grief had slipped, revealing glimpses of the calculation beneath.

Mr. Whitman cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Before we begin, I want to note that James Morrison was exceedingly clear about his wishes. Everything has been properly documented and witnessed.”

Richard leaned forward with that predatory gleam returning to his eyes. My stomach clenched, remembering similar expressions on clients who thought they were about to win something.

The initial bequests were straightforward—personal items to friends and family and charitable donations to local causes. Then, Mr. Whitman paused, shuffling his papers with deliberate care.

“Regarding the Morrison family library, specifically the first edition collection.” He glanced at me over his glasses. “James was most explicit about this. The entire collection is to be transferred to Miss Savannah Honeysucker.”

The air left my lungs in a rush. Around me, the room erupted in murmurs. Richard’s head snapped up, his mask cracking further.

“The books,” Mr. Whitman continued, “are being delivered to your residence as we speak, Miss Honeysucker. James left specific instructions about their care.”

My vision blurred with tears. James’s precious books—his treasures, his legacy. He’d chosen me to protect them.

“Now, regarding the matter of family assets.” Mr. Whitman’s voice cut through the whispers. “As established in the Kingston-Morrison Agreement of 1995, and I quote: ‘No party shall lay claim to familial wealth established prior tomarriage, including but not limited to business holdings, property, and inherited assets.’”

The color drained from Richard’s face as the implications sank in. James and Victoria had outmaneuvered him decades ago, protecting both families with a single document.

“Furthermore,” Mr. Whitman continued, adjusting his glasses, “the Morrison holdings will be distributed as follows. Fifty-one percent to Henry Kingston, and forty-nine percent to Victoria Morrison Kingston, making Henry the primary shareholder of all Morrison business interests.”

Richard’s knuckles went white on his armrest, his facade collapsing.

“That’s impossible,” he snarled. “The Morrison fortune?—”

“Remains exactly where it belongs,” Victoria cut in, her voice calm and composed. “With the family. Just as the Kingston assets remain with theirs.”

Henry caught my eye across the room, his expression shifting with something unreadable. James’s chess game started long before we realized we were pieces on the board.

The rest of the reading passed in a blur of legal terms and asset distributions. When it was over, I slipped out, needing air and space to process everything that had happened.

When I made it home, the late afternoon sun had turned the streets golden. True to Mr. Whitman’s word, dozens of packed boxes lined my apartment walls. Each one was labeled in James’s precise handwriting: “Dickens First Editions,” “Austen Collection,” “Brontë Sisters.”

My hands shook as I opened the nearest box. The familiar scent of old paper and leather rose, bringing a freshwave of grief. These weren’t just valuable books—they were pieces of James’s heart, collected and preserved over decades.

Inside a first edition ofJane Eyre, I found an envelope with my name written in James’s elegant script. The paper was heavy and expensive, and my vision blurred as I unfolded it.

My dear Savvy,

If you’re reading this, then my last move has been played. These books have been my companions through many chapters of my life, but they deserve a new guardian now—someone who understands that stories are more than words on paper. They’re bridges between hearts, between generations.

You entered our lives like a hero from one of those timeless stories, breaking down the walls we so meticulously built with your unwavering honesty and boundless heart. I know you've guided others to their endings, but your real gift lies in helping people discover their beginnings. These books are more than a collection—they're possibilities. Use them well. Build something wonderful.

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