Page 6 of Bullied Pretend Mate
“Actually, think it over. I wouldn’t be talking to you about it if I didn’t think you were the right guy for the job.”
Chapter 3 - Maeve
The lawyer’s office is nice, like I expected. My grandmother was always the kind of woman who settled for nothing but the best in an unfussy kind of way. She’d spend a thousand dollars on a coat if she deemed it to be high quality, but scoffed at the idea of paying for designer labels on principle.
The floors are polished dark wood, with plush carpet in the waiting area. The leather seats are clean and shining, and there’s a simple coffee table holding several glossy, unopened magazines. There’s no TV in the corner—the patrons of this office are too sophisticated for watching television while they wait, apparently.
I only wait for five minutes before the secretary gets up from her desk, her heels clacking as she walks over to me. She stops one inch from the edge of the carpet—like a dog trained not to enter the kitchen—and says, “Mr. Stone will see you now.”
Nodding, I grab my purse and stand, following her down the hall and to the left. I’m surprised when we step into an elevator—not many buildings in Silverville are that tall—and go up all the way to the sixth floor.
When I step out, I realize Mr. Stone has Silverville’s equivalent of a New York City corner office. From here, I can see nearly the entire town stretching out, including the old candy factory up in the hills—which is, no surprise, nothing but a burnt-out shell now. On one edge of town, I spot the motel I declined to stay in, and on the other, the church’s bell tower, which is actually just a bit taller than this building.
“Thank you so much for coming in, Ms. Villareal.”
My eyes adjust as I look from the sunny view outside the window to the balding man sitting in the chair before me. His posture is pristine, his hands steepled, a serious look on his face.
“I imagine your grandmother would be pleased with your hasty return to Silverville,” he says.
I don’t know what to make of that, or how to respond, so I just make a noise and sit in the chair across from him when he gestures at it.
“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat and glancing out the window again. It’s like I can’t stop—I’ve never seen a view like this in Silverville that shows the entire town, the thick trees surrounding it, rising up slowly into the mountains.
We’re situated in the Rockies, but it’s kind of easy to forget about the mountain range beyond the town when you’re here, the sheer volume of the mountains beyond it. How easy it would be to get lost in them, stranded out there.
That’s the way we all felt on the ridge that night, and we weren’t even that far from town.
“Ms. Villareal?”
I snap out of the memory and return my attention to the lawyer sitting in front of me. “I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat and shifting in the seat. “I can’t stop myself from admiring your view.”
“Thank you,” he says, but his tone is all business. “Now, let’s get down to this.”
Any hope I had before coming into this room vanishes. The look on his face says this is not going to be pleasant.
“I am now reading from the last will and testament of Calantha Ellen Villareal. This will was prepared when Calantha was of sound mind and disposing memory, and this document isread to you as declared by her, as her last will and testament, to revoke all wills and codicils before.”
Once again, I’m shifting in my seat, trying to keep up with what he’s saying. It feels like unnecessary legalese. He reads through an identification and declaration, naming my grandmother as the widow of my grandfather. Then he lists her various children and grandchildren, which only makes me more nervous.
From what I’ve heard, my parents left town shortly after the second round of fires started up. And none of my cousins, aunts, or uncles are here, which tells me they’re not around, either. If they were, they’d be clamoring for a chance to see if they’re named in the will.
Stone goes on, and I lace my fingers together, forcing myself to sit still. If all this is for my grandmother to tell me to fuck off once more, I’m going to feel very stupid for coming home.
He continues reading—she would like to be cremated, entombed beside my father. She is leaving ten thousand dollars to the Silverville Pack Center and rebuilding efforts.
“‘—for Supreme Xeran Sorel to use as he sees fit. Should the supreme change hands between now and the time of this reading, the funds will not be dispersed.’”
“Xeran Sorel?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “I thought his uncle was the supreme?”
The lawyer lowers the papers in his hand, looking perturbed, like I’ve just drawn him out of a very good book.
“Declan was,” he says drily. “Xeran returned some time ago and took the position. Thank the gods. Now, shall I continue?”
I nod, mind spinning. What does he mean, returned? I can’t imagine the thought of Xeran Sorel ever leaving this place. His family has been in charge for decades, and we all thought he would be the next supreme.
And what does that mean? Did he have to kill his uncle to take the spot? I have a million questions to ask, but this lawyer probably isn’t the right person, especially since he’s having so much fun droning on through this document.
“Finally, article nine,” he says, clearing his throat, glancing at me, and reaching for a glass of water. “‘Residuary estate and conditional bequest to Maeve Villareal.’”
