CHAPTER TWO – THE STRANGER AND THE STORM
1071 Words
Emily Hayes never liked feeling out of control. But at this moment, her entire world felt like it had been ripped from her hands.
She stood frozen behind the bookstore counter, heart hammering as James Sterling—the tall, too-polished man who had walked into her life like a storm—watched her with unnerving patience.
Your father left you everything.
The words still rang in her ears, absurd and impossible.
She gripped the letter from Harris & Associates, her fingers trembling slightly. The thick envelope, heavy with the weight of an inheritance she never asked for, felt like a ticking time bomb.
She needed air.
Without another word, Emily stormed past James, shoving open the bookstore’s front door.
The late afternoon heat hit her like a wall, thick and suffocating, but she barely noticed. Her mind was spinning, thoughts colliding as she gulped in uneven breaths.
Her father—Christopher Hayes. The name felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else.
She had spent years convincing herself that he didn’t matter. He was just a ghost, a blurry figure in the background of her life. He had never been there. Not for her. Not for her mother. Not once.
And now, after all these years, he had suddenly decided she was important enough to inherit his fortune?
No. This didn’t make sense.
A shadow moved beside her.
James.
She tensed as he leaned casually against the bookstore’s brick wall, hands in his pockets, watching her like a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"You should read the letter," he said, voice smooth, unreadable.
Emily scoffed, hugging her arms. "Why? So I can see exactly what kind of game this is?"
James exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "This isn’t a game."
"You waltz into my store—some guy I’ve never met—telling me I’ve inherited something from a man I never knew, and I’m supposed to just… believe you?"
His gaze darkened. "That’s up to you. But regardless of what you believe, the truth remains. Christopher Hayes was your father. And his legacy now belongs to you."
The words made her stomach twist.
Legacy.
It sounded like a burden, not a gift.
Emily’s throat tightened. "Why are you here, James? Who sent you?"
For a brief second, something flickered in his expression—something restrained. Then it was gone.
"I work for Hayes Industries," he said smoothly. "Your father’s company."
Emily’s nails dug into her palms. "So, you’re just his messenger?"
James’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Not exactly."
"Then what, exactly?"
A pause. The air between them tightened.
Finally, James pushed off the wall, standing tall, powerful. "I’ve been tasked with helping you transition into your new role."
Emily barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "My role? You think I’m going to step into some billionaire’s shoes and run a company I know nothing about?"
James studied her, expression unreadable. "That’s what your father wanted."
Her stomach churned. Her father wanted.
Where was he when she and her mother struggled? Where was he when she had to fight for every damn thing in her life?
And now, when it was far too late, he suddenly had wants for her?
She shook her head, stepping away. "I don’t want his money. I don’t want his company. And I sure as hell don’t need your help."
James arched a brow, his composure infuriatingly steady. "That’s an interesting stance. But unfortunately, it’s not that simple."
Emily’s jaw clenched. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
He glanced at his watch. "We should talk somewhere private."
She scoffed. "Oh, I’m not going anywhere with you."
"Then read the letter," James countered smoothly. "Because once you do, you’ll realize walking away isn’t an option."
Emily’s breath caught. The way he said it—calm, certain—sent a chill through her.
Before she could respond, the sky darkened. The sticky New York heat gave way to an unexpected gust of wind, rustling through the narrow streets. A storm was coming.
She should go inside. She should lock the door, shut James out, pretend none of this was happening.
Instead, she swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the envelope.
Then, slowly, she tore it open.
The paper inside was thick, expensive. Like something meant to last.
Her eyes scanned the first few lines, and the world seemed to tilt.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF CHRISTOPHER HAYES
To my daughter, Emily Hayes:
I know this letter may come as a shock.
I do not expect forgiveness, nor do I deserve it. But I have spent my life building something, and now, in my final moments, I realize the only person worthy of carrying it forward is you.
You are my only heir. My empire—my life’s work—is now yours.
However, there is a condition.
You must claim what is rightfully yours within six months. If you do not, Hayes Industries will be dissolved, its assets liquidated and distributed.
And everything I built will be lost to those who never deserved it.
The words blurred.
A roaring sound filled Emily’s ears, like distant thunder.
She barely noticed as James stepped closer.
"Now you understand," he murmured.
She sucked in a shaky breath, every muscle in her body locking up.
Six months.
She had six months to take control of a world she had never been part of.
Or everything—whatever it was her father had left behind—would disappear.
Panic clawed at her chest.
"Who else gets it?" she whispered, not realizing she had spoken out loud.
James hesitated.
"If I walk away," she pressed, pulse hammering, "who does it go to?"
His gaze was steady. "Your father’s business partners."
Something in his tone made her stomach drop. "And if they get it?"
James’s jaw tightened slightly. "Let’s just say… they won’t be keeping it alive."
A chill ran through her.
Emily had no interest in her father’s money, but something told her that walking away wouldn’t just mean losing an inheritance.
It would mean losing everything he had built—to the wrong people.
She swallowed, her grip on the paper tightening.
The storm broke overhead, thunder rumbling across the sky.
She had spent her whole life trying to escape the shadow of a man she had never met.
And now, he had left her with a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all.
- Writer
