FORBIDDEN INHERITANCE
Mckenna James
COPYRIGHT© 2020 LUCKY INHERITANCE by MCKENNA JAMES
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
FORBIDDEN INHERITANCE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie
Out of all the Fortune 500 companies in the world, only twenty-five of their CEOs are women. I just so happen to be one of them.
And I fully intend on keeping it that way.
People throw all kinds of rumors around. They say I’m too aggressive and catty. I guarantee that if I were a man, they’d say I’m assertive and a perfectionist. I don’t let the gossip get to me. It’s just words; they can’t harm me. I know they say these things because they’re jealous of my success. And maybe also the fact that I inherited Bliss Media from my great-uncle, Charles Blankenship, after he passed away.
Some say I don’t deserve the position, to which I respond by saying, ‘Let me hand you a pink slip.’ I don’t have time for naysayers. My employees can either fall in line behind me, or they can leave. If they have enough time to slander their boss, they have time to work. Efficiency is everything to me, so I won’t stand to see people wasting my time.
Time is money, Uncle Charles used to say. That is before he started changing his tune. Maybe he could sense his time was coming to an end. In the last couple months of his life, he started saying things like ‘Take it easy,’ and ‘There’s more to life than money,’ and ‘Settle down, Charlie. Why don’t you find yourself a husband to spend your days with?’
I frankly didn’t appreciate the sudden change in attitude. Uncle Charles raised me to believe that the only way to be the best was to work hard and take no prisoners. And now that I’ve finally won that stupid court case, I don’t intend on changing my ways now.
I leave through the bank doors with a renewed sense of purpose, the weight and stress of the will contestation finally behind me. It wasn’t my intention to travel to the Cayman Islands to set up a bank account in person, but I’m a firm believer that if I want something done right, I have to do it myself.
Contesting Uncle Charles’ will had been a lengthy process, but it was worth it. Had I let things slide, all of Uncle Charles’ inheritance would have been left to that jerk Roman Howard. He wasn’t even related to us, and yet he somehow managed to convince Uncle Charles’ to leave his millions to Roman and his decrepit homeless shelter?
Not on my watch.
Roman would probably just squander the money if he got it. I’ve known him long enough to know how much of a brownnoser he is, always pretending to be so polite and kind so people take pity on him. So much so that Uncle Charles pretty much took Roman under his wing even though he already had me.
None of it matters now, I suppose. Uncle Charles’ inheritance is now safely sitting in my Cayman Islands bank account, collecting compound interest that I fully intend to use by re-investing in my company. With this kind of liquid capital sitting around, the possibilities for growth are endless.
There’s no denying that it’s beautiful here. I live in Chicago, so the tropical island weather is a welcome reprieve from the cold rain and harsh winds. I’m not exactly dressed with the intention of sunbathing. I’m in my red business-formal dress, leather Gucci belt around my waist to accentuate my curves, standing tall in a pair of five-inch Louboutins.
I definitely stand out against the white sand, towering palm trees, and the warm scent of sea salt. The hot golden sun beats down on my delicate pale skin so much so that I can already feel my arms, exposed shoulders, and face burning. I made sure to put on a lot of sunscreen before my appointment with the bank, but I don’t think SPF 50 is enough to save me.
The sooner I get back to the hotel, the better.
I speed walk past tourists and street vendors selling all sorts of colorful knickknacks. It bothers me how many people are in my way, fanning out horizontally across the narrow street while moseying about at a turtle’s pace. They’re all dressed in itty-bitty bikinis and swimming trunks, aggressively loud patterned shirts over their torsos that clash with their hand-woven flipflops. I sigh when I can’t seem to get around a group of British tourists who’ve queued in front of a Mai Tai cart.
It’s hard not to frown at them. I personally don’t see the appeal of beach vacations, or vacations in general. I love my work too much to deliberately leave the comforts of my office. I’d personally lose my mind if I took some time off. What was even the point? It’s a whole week or so that I could be approving important projects and supervising corporate takeovers of smaller companies. Lounging about doing nothing, it’s just not for me.
A neighboring vendor, a fifty-something man in a fraying straw hat, chuckles at me. “What’s your hurry, miss? Where’s the fire?” He gestures to his little vendor station, which is really just a plastic fold-away table covered in all sorts of trinkets. There are tiny bottles of sand for sale at five bucks a pop, multi-color seashell bracelets, sea creatures that have been hand-carved from driftwood, and more. “Why not check out my wares, miss? I’ll give you a good deal.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“You look kind of hot there, miss,” he continues, reaching into a red drink cooler filled to the brim with ice. He pulls out a can of soda and holds it out to me. “Free of charge, miss. Gots to stay cool, you know?”
I accept the beverage and smile politely. “Oh, um… Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”
The crowd of Mai Thai customers finally disperses enough for me to get by. I nod to the vendor and shuffle off, eager to get back to the Ritz-Carlton to pack up for the flight home.
The streets here are narrow with tourists. It’s almost impossible to get around them. Back in Chicago, I’m used to people moving out of my way when they see me approach. I take the private car everywhere, so when I arrive, people know I mean business and keep to themselves. Here?
Here, it’s a free for all.
It’s inconvenient.
It also doesn’t help that there happens to be construction up ahead. A building restoration, by the look of things, though I’m no expert when it comes to hard labor. Th
ere’s a bunch of scaffolding, rickety metal poles holding up a team of four or five men up above the busy streets. People have to step off the curb to get around them. The noise of construction irritates me, the loud sounds of hammering, drilling, talking loudly over one another to deliver instructions—it gives me a terrible headache.
I can’t wait to get back to my room, pack, and get off this island. I suppose I could have had Molly take care of setting up the offshore account, but I trust that woman as far as I can throw her. It’s not that she’s conniving or even smart enough to think of taking my money from me. I just don’t trust her competence. I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman made a clerical error, and as a result, somehow lost every penny that Uncle Charles left for me.
I happen to spot a familiar tuft of dark brown hair in my peripheral vision.
“Charlie?” comes a deep, annoyingly familiar voice.
I roll my eyes and pick up my pace, hoping to get to the hotel before I can be stopped. “What? Are you stalking me now?” I grumble. “Go away, Roman.”
He chases after me, hot on my tail. “Charlie, please wait. I just need a minute of your time.”
I stop abruptly and relish the way Roman almost stumbles. I turn sharply toward him and throw him a glance. His dark brown hair is all messed up and sticking out in places. There are dark circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. Gruff stubble lines his sharp jawline, the focus in his dark green eyes bordering on desperate. There’s no denying that Roman’s an attractive man. It’s just a shame he’s so damn annoying. He looks even worse for wear ever since the judge declared Uncle Charles’ inheritance as mine.
“You have twenty seconds,” I say curtly.
“Think about the kids, Charlie,” he blurts out, clearly having rehearsed what he’s going to say. “Charles left me that money to put toward Phoenix House. That money was going to pay for several years’ worth of food, warm clothes, their education, and housing for the boys. Please reconsider, Charlie. Charles wanted that money to be given to charity. If not my charity, then pick one you approve of. I’m begging you, don’t keep it all to yourself.”
My lips curled into a sneer. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Charlie, listen–”
“No, you listen. That money is mine. Got it? It’s my birthright. How you managed to convince Charles to hand it all over to you, I’ll never understand. Since you’re so good at begging, why don’t you beg someone else for a donation? Everything’s already settled. I’m not giving you a dime.” I peel away and try to leave, but Roman grabs my hand. I instantly recoil, offended that he’d lay so much as a finger on me. “Don’t touch me!”
“Charlie, wait– Look out!”
I don’t get a chance to ask what Roman’s screaming about.
Out of nowhere, something hard and heavy comes crashing down on me, smacking me right on top of my skull. The pain that radiates through my head ends up throbbing in my teeth and all the way down my neck. I hear something metallic rattle on the rough sidewalk, followed by the hard thump of a body—my body.
Strength leaves my limbs with such instantaneous ferocity that I collapse in on myself. My vision swirls as my surroundings spin in the opposite direction. The air’s been knocked right out of my lungs. I don’t feel any pain anymore, just the warmth of someone holding my hand and checking me over. I’m vaguely aware of a deep voice calling my name, over and over again, full of concern.
It’s a nice voice, I think as darkness engulfs me.
CHAPTER TWO
Roman
I don’t believe in karma, but this whole thing screams karmic justice.
Even still, I’m worried beyond belief. Charlie and I have never really gotten along, but that doesn’t mean I want to see her hurt.
I knew Charlie would be at the Ritz because of course. She’s always been a woman of refined taste. I’ve never been much of a detective, but I at least knew I could find her there. Or at least, find someone who knew of her whereabouts. I swear I’m not a creep, even though that’s something a creep would say. It’s just that I urgently need to speak with her. Considering how rocky things have been between us, I knew there was no way she’d pick up the phone.
Hence the impromptu trip to the Cayman Islands.
It took me nearly every last penny in my savings account to book those plane tickets, but it’ll be worth it if I can convince Charlie to change her mind.
Those kids are counting on me.
As luck would have it, I happen to spot Charlie stepping out of the Cayman Royal Bank. I took it as a good sign that I managed to find her so quickly.
Little did I know fate was going to prove me wrong.
The construction crew are working on restoring the corner of this massive brick building. I’m fairly certain it’s a historical landmark, which is why they’ve gone out of their way to set up so much scaffolding and raised wooden barriers to keep the public from entering. They’re moving pieces of heavy metal pipes around, likely to repair the building’s sprinkler system.
I happen to catch a glimpse of one of these pieces rolling over the edge of the scaffolding, plummeting down. I instinctively reach for Charlie to pull her out of the way, but she escapes my grasp like I’ve burned her.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Charlie, wait– Look out!”
The crack of the pipe against her head haunts me, chills me to my very bone marrow. As she crumples over and falls to the warm ground, I swear to God I can see red soaking into her fair blonde hair. Charlie lands hard despite my trying to catch her, eyes already falling closed. I drop to my knees beside her and check her over, adrenaline pumping through my veins.
“Charlie? Charlie, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t respond. Her eyes shut closed, the pained expression on her face fading into nothing as her head lulls to the side.
“Charlie?” I try again. Still nothing.
I check her over quickly. Charlie’s breathing steadily, and her pulse is strong. There does appear to be a bit of blood where the pipe made contact with her skull and broke the skin, but from what I can tell, it’s pretty minor. What I'm most concerned about is the force of the impact and the untold damage it’s caused to her brain. I’m no doctor, but I’ve been looking after the boys at Phoenix House long enough to recognize a severe concussion when I see one.
Lost boys are aggressive boys.
They need a lot of patience and love.
People are beginning to gather; some concerned tourists and fearful construction workers. I turn to one closest to me, some big guy in a gawdy Hawaiian tee.
“do you have a phone? Somebody call an ambulance. We need to get her to a hospital.”
“Right away,” he says with a quick nod before fumbling around his fanny pack for a phone.
“Holy shit,” gasps one of the contractors. His team has climbed down from the scaffolding. “Holy shit, holy shit. Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay.”
One of the other contractors, significantly younger than his colleagues, approaches carefully. He looks like he’s about to be sick. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”
“Calm down, Pedro,” says one of his friends. “I’ll call your wife and let her know you’ll be a little late coming home. The police are probably going to want a full story from you for the accident report.”
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, face having completely paled.
My chest tightens, a sense of horror pooling in my gut. This is all clearly an accident, and Pedro seems incredibly remorseful. But I know as soon as Charlie comes to, she’s probably going to sue the guy for everything he’s worth. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to go after everybody else involved. I’ve experienced first-hand what her lawyer, Mister Maloney, is capable of. He’d recommend going after the hotel, the contractor’s company, maybe even the paramedics if even the slightest thing is outside of protocol.
I shiv
er at the thought.
Mister Maloney is born of the stuff of nightmares. I don’t think he’s even human. He’s got dead black eyes like a shark and an expressionless face that perfectly compliments his emotionless and calculating nature. He tore me apart in the cross-examination, made my life absolutely miserable. In the end, Mister Maloney even had me doubting myself. He’s Charlie’s secret weapon, and an effective one at that.
I do my best not to let the memories of the will contestation creep into my mind. Instead, I focus on making sure Charlie’s okay. I can hear emergency sirens off in the distance, which means help will be here soon.
“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her as calmly as I can despite the worry gnawing at my nerves. I grip her limp hand and give her fingers a light squeeze, trying to be as comforting as I can. “You’re going to be alright.”
Charlie looks so different when she’s not scowling—which happens to be all the time. She’s got perfectly arched brows, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and lovely full lips. It’s a shame she’s always frowning, pinching her nose up in disdain, and pursing her lips in derision. Even though we practically grew up together, I couldn’t for the life of me remember a time when Charlie seemed genuinely happy.
The ambulance pulls up to the curb, two paramedics rushing over with a stretcher and emergency response kit. The crowd that’s formed around Charlie and I part aside like the Red Sea to allow them access.
“What happened?” asks the first paramedic, already moving to ready the stretcher.
“A piece of pipe fell and hit her on the head,” I explain quickly.
“Has she been out this whole time? Any response?”
“I haven’t been able to get her to wake up, no.”
“Do you happen to know her blood type?”
“O-positive,” I blurt out instantly.
When we were teenagers, Charlie and I used to donate blood together. She’s always been incredibly competitive and was actually quite upset to learn that I’m O negative, a universal donor. She wanted to be able to help more people than me and threw a bit of a fit. In hindsight, it’s a silly thing to be upset about. I tried to assure her she was helping a lot of people too. Even still, it’s her nature to want to be the very best. That’s really the only reason I happen to have that information readily available.
Forgotten Inheritance (Inherit Love Book 6) Page 1
