For the second time in my life, I felt every pair of eyes in a room turn to me. There was an eerie symmetry between this moment and the moment right before Mr. Ortega had read the final terms of Tobias Hawthorne’s will.
“Ms. Grambs has announced,” the reporter tried again, his voice strangled, “that as of midnight, she has signed paperwork transferring ninety-four percent of her inheritance into a charitable trust to be distributed in its entirety in the next five years.”
It was done. It was legal. I couldn’t have undone it even if I’d wanted to.
Thea was the first one to break the silence. “What the hell?”
Nash turned to his ex-fiancée. “You helped her give away all that money?”
Alisa raised her chin. “The partners at the firm didn’t even know.”
Nash let out a low chuckle. “You are so getting fired.”
Alisa smiled—not the tight, professional smile she normally used, but a real one. “Job security isn’t everything.” She shrugged. “And as it so happens, I’ve accepted a new position at a charitable trust.”
I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at Jameson. Or Grayson. Or even Xander or Nash. I hadn’t asked for their permission. I wasn’t going to be asking for forgiveness, either. Instead, I thrust my chin out, the way Alisa had. “You’ll all be receiving your invitations to join the board of the Hannah the Same Backward as Forward Foundation soon.”
Silence.
This time, it was Grayson who broke it. “You want us to help you give it away?”
I met his eyes. “I want you to help me find the best ideas and the best people to determine how to give it all away.”
Libby frowned. “What about the Hawthorne Foundation?” In addition to Tobias Hawthorne’s fortune, I’d also inherited control of his charitable enterprise.
“Zara’s agreed to stay on for a few years while I’m otherwise occupied,”
I answered. The Hawthorne Foundation had its own charter, which laid out the minimum and maximum percentage of its assets that could be given away each year. I couldn’t empty it out—but I could make sure that my foundation had different rules.
That my inheritance wouldn’t stay earmarked for charity for long.
Grinning, I handed Libby a sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s account information for about a dozen different websites I signed you up for,” I told her. “Mutual aid, mostly, and microloans to women entrepreneurs in the developing world. The new foundation will be handling official charitable giving, but we both know what it’s like to need help and have nowhere to go. I’ve set aside ten million a year for you—for that.”
Before she could reply, I tossed something to Nash. He caught it, then examined what I’d tossed him. Keys.
“What’s this?” he drawled, his accent thick with amusement at this entire turn of events.
“Those,” I told him, “are the keys to my sister’s new cupcake truck.”
Libby stared at me, her eyes round, her lips making an O. “I can’t accept this, Ave.”
“I know.” I smirked. “That’s why I gave the keys to Nash.”
Before I could say anything else, Jameson stepped in front of me.
“You’re giving it away,” he said, his expression as much of a mystery to me as it had been the day we met. “Almost everything the old man left to you, everything he chose you for—”
“I’m keeping Hawthorne House,” I told him. “And more than enough money to maintain it. I might even keep a vacation home or two—after I’ve seen them all.”