Chapter 3 - THE HEIRLOOM IN THE HOSTESS’S HAND
The silence in the dusty office was so absolute I could hear the faint clatter of silverware from the dining room outside.
"Your mother?" I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I looked at Maya. Really looked at her.
The shape of her jaw. The hazel eyes. The way she held her shoulders when she was nervous.
She was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. Clara had been pregnant when I was sent away. I had never known what happened to the baby. Richard had sworn he would ruin Clara’s life if I ever tried to contact her from prison. I had stayed dead to keep them safe.
"Clara is your mother?" I asked, taking a step toward her. "Where is she? Is she okay?"
Maya backed away, clutching her hands to her chest. "She's sick. She's been sick for a long time. We can barely afford her treatments. That's why I'm working here. Mr. Bellamy gave me the job as a charity case."
Bile rose in my throat.
Charity.
Richard Bellamy had stolen my restaurant, framed me, forced me to abandon my pregnant daughter, and was now playing the benevolent savior by paying his own flesh-and-blood granddaughter minimum wage to seat wealthy guests in her grandfather's restaurant.
"It wasn't a car crash," I said softly. "I went to prison to keep Richard from hurting her."
Grant, who had been listening by the door, suddenly laughed. It was a nervous, ugly sound.
"This is insane," Grant said. "You think you can waltz in here after fifteen years in a wet coat and claim you own the place? Mr. Bellamy holds the title. He bought your shares."
"He stole them," I corrected.
"Doesn't matter," Grant sneered. "He's five minutes away. And when he gets here, he's going to have you thrown out on the street where you belong."
I ignored Grant and turned back to Maya.
I reached out and placed the tarnished silver pocket watch into her hand.
"Press the button on the top," I instructed gently.
Maya hesitated, then pressed it. The front cover popped open.
Inside, opposite the clock face, wasn't just a microfilm chip. There was a tiny, perfectly preserved baby footprint stamped in blue ink.
"I gave Clara this watch the day she told me she was pregnant," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "She stamped your footprint in it the day you were born. She smuggled it to my lawyer, who hid it in this desk before Richard locked the room."
Maya stared at the tiny footprint, a tear slipping down her cheek and landing on the glass face of the watch.
"He lied to us," Maya whispered. "Mr. Bellamy told my mother you abandoned us. He said you emptied the family accounts and fled."
"Richard emptied the accounts," I said. "And I'm going to prove it."
Before Maya could respond, the heavy green door slammed open.
Standing in the doorway was a man in a flawless charcoal suit, his silver hair perfectly coiffed.
Richard Bellamy.
He didn't look like a man caught in a lie. He looked like a king annoyed by a peasant in his court.
"Elias," Richard said smoothly, stepping into the room. "I see prison hasn't improved your wardrobe."
He glanced at Grant. "Lock the door behind me. Don't let anyone in."
Grant quickly shut the door, turning the deadbolt.
Richard’s eyes landed on Maya, who was still holding the silver watch. His polished smile vanished.
"Maya, dear," Richard said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Put that old piece of junk down and go back to the host stand. This is grown-up business."
Maya didn't move. She held the watch tighter.
"You lied to my mother," she said, her voice shaking but defiant.
Richard sighed, reaching into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket.
"I protected your mother," Richard countered. "Elias was a criminal. I salvaged this restaurant from his ruin."
Richard pulled out a folded piece of heavy parchment paper and tossed it onto the oak desk.
"This is the master deed, Elias," Richard said coldly. "Signed by you, transferring all rights, assets, and properties to me in 2011. Completely notarized and legal."
I looked down at the paper.
It was my signature. Perfect in every way.
"I never signed that," I said.
"The courts say you did," Richard smiled. "So, you have two choices. You walk out the back door into the rain, and I don't have you arrested for breaking and entering. Or you stay, and I have Grant call the police to haul you away."
Grant smirked, pulling his phone back out.
But my eyes weren't on Richard. They were on the parchment paper.
I reached out and turned the deed over.
"You were always arrogant, Richard," I said softly. "But you were never detail-oriented."
I pointed to a tiny, embossed seal on the back corner of the paper.
"This is a watermark from the Kensington Paper Mill," I said. "And this specific watermark—the double eagle—wasn't introduced until 2014."
Richard froze.
"You didn't get me to sign this in 2011 before I went to prison," I said, looking up into his suddenly panicked eyes. "You forged it three years later."
I reached into my wet coat and pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal.
"And I know exactly who forged it for you," I said.
I opened the journal to the first page.
It was a handwritten confession, signed and dated just last week.
May you like
And the signature at the bottom didn't belong to Richard.
It belonged to his wife.
