“No. But he knew I had adopted the child found outside St. Catherine’s.”
William Ashford had visited my law office after learning I represented adoptive families.
At first, he asked ordinary questions.
Then he showed me an old hospital payment.
A photograph of the silver bracelet.
And a hidden diary written by his daughter Caroline.
Caroline had been Charles’s older sister.
The Ashford family told the public she died in Europe after a serious illness.
No body was returned.
No funeral was held.
There was only a private memorial.
William eventually discovered that Caroline had not died overseas.
She had been placed inside a private psychiatric facility.
Before she disappeared, Caroline wrote about a baby born at St. Catherine’s.
William believed the child was Caroline’s.
He began searching.
He found a payment made on the same night an unidentified infant was abandoned.
That infant had been adopted.
By me.
“Lily may be Caroline’s daughter,” I said.
Eleanor’s expression became rigid.
Charles looked at his mother.
“Is that true?”
“Of course not.”
“Did Caroline have a baby?”
“She was sick.”
“That was not my question.”
Eleanor turned toward the guards.
“Remove Victoria from the estate.”
Neither guard moved.
Her voice rose.
“Did you hear me?”
The head of security stepped forward.
“Yes, Mrs. Ashford.”
“Then remove her.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mrs. Victoria Ashford is now the legal trustee of this property.”
Gasps spread through the ballroom.
Charles turned toward me.
“What?”
I had not come to the gala only to protect Lily.
I had come to execute William’s final instructions.
After finding the hidden records, William changed his estate plan.
He placed Ashford Manor, thirty-eight percent of Ashford Financial, and the controlling interest in the family foundation into a protected trust.
The beneficiary was Caroline’s surviving child.
Until the child’s identity could be confirmed, an independent trustee would control everything.
William chose me.
At that time, I was simply the attorney who had adopted the baby he believed was his granddaughter.
Years later, when I met Charles at a charity conference, I did not know he was William’s son.
By the time I learned, we had already fallen in love.
At least, I believed we had.
William’s instructions were clear.
The trust would become active only if Eleanor harmed the child, tried to sell the estate, or attempted to destroy evidence.
That evening, she had done all three.
Twenty minutes before Lily ran to me, the foundation attorney had brought proof that Eleanor was preparing to sell Ashford Manor.