Chapter 2 - Felix was not the enemy
The first person I apologized to was Felix.
Not Genevieve.
Felix.
He stood near the front steps while his mother argued with one of her attorneys on the phone.
I approached without security.
He stiffened.
That hurt more than I expected.
I had spent years allowing children in my own family to learn that adults stiffened when Benedict Ravelle walked toward them.
“Felix.”
“Yes, Uncle Benedict?”
“I should not have thrown the cake with you standing there.”
He stared at me.
“Okay.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“What?”
“Any of it.”
His eyes moved toward Primrose inside.
“Mom says I’m supposed to be the next Ravelle.”
“You are a Ravelle.”
“My name is Locke.”
“You are still my sister’s son.”
He looked confused.
Adults love labels more than children do.
Then he asked:
“Does Primrose lose the house?”
“No.”
“Does she lose the company?”
“No.”
“Do I get it?”
“No.”
That answer seemed to relieve him.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“I don’t want it.”
I almost smiled.
“What do you want?”
“A horse.”
At least one person in the succession fight had a clear strategy.
Then Genevieve approached.
“Do not talk to my son alone.”
“I’m standing in front of forty people.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
She hated when I answered that way.
Then she looked at Felix.
“Car.”
He left.
No argument.
When she turned back, she whispered:
“You have no idea what Adrian signed.”
“I know exactly what he signed.”
That was partly a bluff.
I knew:
He had given a statement.
He had surrendered documents.
I did not yet know the full details because the government was not my private research department.
Then:
“You think your reputation protects Primrose?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“It’s the trust document that protects her.”
Her face twitched.
Then:
“The real trust document.”
That landed.
She left.
I returned to the banquet hall.
The children had been moved into the garden with the magician we hired.
Good.
Adults were cleaning frosting.
Primrose sat on a chair with Mateo’s wife, Isabel, eating a cupcake someone found in the kitchen.
I knelt.
“I’m sorry about your cake.”
She shrugged.
“This one is good.”
Children survive symbolism better than adults.
Then:
“Is Aunt Genevieve mad because I’m a girl?”
I stopped.
“Why do you ask?”
“She said Felix looks like an heir.”
There.
I could have lied.
“No.”
Instead:
“She thinks some old family rules should matter more than they do.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
“Yes.”
Primrose looked at the cupcake.
“That’s stupid.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
Then she asked:
“What’s an heir?”
A child who should never have been forced to care at six.
“It means someone who may receive property one day.”
“Like toys?”
“Sometimes bigger things.”
“Do I get your watch?”
I looked at my gold watch.
“Not if you keep dropping juice on everything.”
She smiled.
The party continued.
Not because I wanted to pretend.
Because Genevieve did not get to decide Primrose’s birthday ended.
We brought out another cake.
Smaller.
Primrose blew out six candles.
No speeches.
No discussion of inheritance.
But after the guests left, my attorney arrived.
Naomi Mercer.
Trust and corporate counsel.
She placed an intact copy of the folder Genevieve had waved on my desk.
“This,” she said, “is either one of the most consequential amendments your father ever signed…”
May you like
She paused.
“…or one of the most expensive pieces of fiction your sister has ever tried to turn into law.”
