The Last Will

The roses at my grandfather's funeral were the wrong shade of red.

I noticed this because I couldn't let myself notice anything else. Not the sea of black-clad mourners filling St. Patrick's Cathedral. Not the mahogany casket at the altar, polished to a mirror shine. Not the hollow ache in my chest that had taken up permanent residence three days ago when the hospital called.

The roses were coral. Grandfather hated coral. He'd specifically said crimson in his funeral instructions, because of course Theodore Ashworth had funeral instructions, organized in a leather binder, updated annually. Crimson roses, Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat, and under no circumstances was anyone to use the word "passing" instead of "died."

"He died," I'd told the florist this morning when she'd tried to soften the blow. "He didn't pass. He didn't transition. He died. And he wanted crimson roses."

She'd given me coral anyway.

The eulogy droned on. Senator Mitchell, a man my grandfather had tolerated at best, was explaining how Theodore Ashworth had been "like a father" to him. Grandfather would have hated this. He would have wanted someone to stand up and say the truth: that he'd built an empire from nothing, loved his wife until the day she died, raised me when my parents couldn't, and had absolutely no patience for politicians who confused proximity with intimacy.

I kept my eyes on the roses and my spine straight. Ashworths didn't crumble in public.

Afterward, the reception at the family estate felt like being slowly suffocated by good intentions. Every hand I shook, every murmured condolence I acknowledged, every time someone said "he lived a good life" as if that made any of this acceptable, it all pressed down on me until I could barely breathe.

"Miss Ashworth?" Helena Vance, our family attorney, appeared at my elbow. Sixty-two, silver-haired, sharper than anyone gave her credit for. "The will reading is in thirty minutes. Private study."

"Today?" I hadn't expected it so soon.

"Your grandfather's instructions." She paused. "There are... provisions that require immediate attention."

The way she hesitated made me look at her more carefully. Helena had been my grandfather's attorney for forty years. I'd never seen her look uncertain before.

"What kind of provisions?"

"The kind best discussed in private. Thirty minutes."

She disappeared into the crowd before I could press further.

The private study had always been my grandfather's sanctuary. Oak-paneled walls, leather furniture that smelled like pipe tobacco and old books, a globe in the corner that he'd spin whenever he was thinking through a problem. I'd spent countless hours in this room, doing homework at his feet while he worked, asking him questions about everything from stock markets to broken hearts.

Now it felt like a museum exhibit. Here is where Theodore Ashworth sat. Here is where he read. Here is the chair where his granddaughter curled up as a child, not understanding that one day he would be gone.

The room was already occupied when I arrived. Helena sat behind the desk, files spread before her. My grandfather's business partner for the past several decades, Vincent Castellano, occupied one of the armchairs, or rather, a portrait of him did. Vincent had died two months ago, and the irony of my grandfather following so quickly wasn't lost on anyone.

Vincent's daughter, Marianna, sat in the other chair. We nodded at each other politely. We'd never been close, the Castellanos and Ashworths kept their partnership professional, but there was no animosity either.

"We're waiting for one more," Helena said.

Before I could ask who, the door opened.

And He walked in.

Twelve years. It had been twelve years since I'd seen him in person, and my body reacted before my brain caught up, a jolt through my sternum, shoulders locking, that old familiar anger rising like bile in my throat.

He'd grown into his features. At seventeen, he'd been sharp angles and barely contained intensity. At thirty-one, he was... more. Taller. Broader. Dark hair cut precisely, steel-gray eyes that swept the room and landed on me with absolutely no recognition. Or maybe no acknowledgment, hard to tell with him.

His suit was Brioni. I recognized the cut from a fundraiser catalog. His expression suggested I was worth considerably less.

"Dominic." Helena gestured to the remaining seat. "Thank you for coming."

"Helena." He sat, somehow making the simple action look like a power play. "I wasn't aware we'd be meeting jointly."

"Your grandfather's and Theodore's wills are... interconnected. It seemed efficient."

Dominic's gaze flicked to me again. Still nothing. As if I were furniture.

Fine. I could be furniture. I'd been invisible to him for over a decade; I could manage another hour.

Helena cleared her throat. "Given the circumstances, I'll dispense with the standard readings and get to the relevant provisions. The majority of both estates are straightforward, assets distributed as expected, charitable bequests honored, business succession plans activated."

She paused. Shuffled papers. Didn't meet anyone's eyes.

"However. There is one additional clause. Added by Theodore six months ago, with Vincent's concurrent amendment."

"What clause?" I asked.

Helena finally looked up. "I'm going to read it verbatim. Please allow me to finish before asking questions."

She picked up a document and began:

"Sixty years ago, Vincent Castellano and I shook hands on a promise. We would build our empires together, and one day, our families would be joined. Life intervened, his son married elsewhere, my daughter married elsewhere, and the promise seemed destined to remain unfulfilled.

"But our grandchildren are unmarried. And I find, at the end of my life, that I want them to have what Vincent and I built, together. Not divided. Not sold to strangers. Together, as it was meant to be.

"Therefore: Within thirty days of this will's reading, Eliza Catherine Ashworth and Dominic Vincent Castellano shall marry. The marriage shall be legal and valid, and they shall cohabitate as spouses for a period of no less than one year.

"Upon successful completion of this term, the combined Ashworth-Castellano estate, valued at approximately two billion dollars, shall be divided equally between them.

"Should they fail to marry within the specified timeframe, or should the marriage dissolve before the one-year term is completed, the entire estate shall be donated to the Ashworth-Castellano Charitable Trust, to be administered according to its existing charter.

"I know this seems unconventional. Perhaps even cruel. But I have watched both of you from afar, and I believe you are precisely what the other needs. Trust an old man's instincts one last time.

"With love and hope, Theodore Ashworth."

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Then Marianna laughed, a short, shocked sound. "He can't be serious."

"The will is legally valid," Helena said quietly. "Vincent's amendments mirror Theodore's exactly. This was... coordinated."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't process. My grandfather, my kind, wise, rational grandfather, had used his dying wishes to... what? Force me into marriage with the person I hated most in the world?

"No."

The word came from Dominic, flat and final.

"Mr. Castellano..." Helena started.

"No." He stood, and somehow the room felt smaller. "This is absurd. You can contest it."

"On what grounds? Theodore was of sound mind when he made the amendment. So was Vincent. They had every right to dispose of their assets as they saw fit."

"Then let it go to charity. I won't..." He stopped. His jaw worked. "I won't marry her."

Her. Like I was a disease.

That finally broke through my shock. "Trust me, the feeling is mutual."

He looked at me directly for the first time. Those gray eyes, flat and assessing. "Then we're in agreement."

"We're in agreement that our grandfathers lost their minds."

"Apparently."

Helena raised a hand. "Before you both make any hasty decisions, I need to inform you of the full scope. Dominic, if this goes to charity, Castellano Enterprises loses seventy percent of its funding. The company your grandfather built will be sold off in pieces."

His expression faltered for half a second. Gone before I could catalog it.

"And Eliza," Helena continued, "the Ashworth Foundation's endowment comes from the estate. If this fails, the foundation closes. Every program, every scholarship, every initiative you've built over the past eight years, gone."

The foundation. My life's work. The thing I'd poured everything into after my grandfather gave me the chance to prove myself. Three thousand children on educational scholarships. Twelve women's shelters. A medical research fund that had already contributed to two breakthrough treatments.

Gone.

"You're saying," I said slowly, "that we have to choose between losing everything we've built... or marrying each other."

"I'm saying those are your options. Yes."

Dominic hadn't moved. He was staring at the portrait of his grandfather, his face a mask of deliberate blankness.

"Thirty days," he said finally. "To marry."

"Yes."

"One year. Cohabitating."

"Correct."

He turned to me. The hatred I expected wasn't there, just cold calculation.

"We need to discuss this," he said. "Without an audience."

I wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell him that I'd rather lose everything than spend five minutes alone with him.

But three thousand children on scholarships. Twelve women's shelters.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm choosing the location."

We ended up in the rose garden, because it was the last place he'd want to be and I needed every small victory I could get.

The late afternoon light painted everything gold. Somewhere beyond the hedges, mourners were still mingling, unaware that my life had just detonated.

Dominic stood three feet away, hands in his pockets, looking at me like I was a puzzle he'd rather not solve.

"I need to know one thing," I said. "Why did you come back for this? You could have sent a representative."

"Because Helena implied it was urgent." His voice was clipped, efficient. "I didn't realize 'urgent' meant 'insane.'"

"Neither did I."

Neither of us spoke. The roses swayed. The roses swayed in the breeze, coral, still wrong.

"I can't lose the company," he said finally. "My grandfather spent sixty years building it. I spent ten more saving it from my father's incompetence. I won't let it disappear because of a clause in a will."

"And I can't lose the foundation. It's not about money for me, it's about the people who depend on it."

He studied me. "So we're both trapped."

"Apparently."

More silence. A bird sang somewhere, offensively cheerful.

"One year," he said. "Twelve months. Then we divorce, split the estate, and never speak to each other again."

"That's your proposal?"

"Do you have a better one?"

I didn't. That was the worst part.

"If we do this," I said, "there are going to be rules. Boundaries. Non-negotiable terms."

"I'd expect nothing less from you."

The way he said it made it sound like an insult. I chose to ignore it.

"Tomorrow," I said. "My foundation offices. Ten a.m. We'll discuss terms."

"Fine."

He turned to leave, then paused. Looked back at me.

"For the record," he said, "this isn't my idea of a good time either. But I protect what's mine. You should do the same."

"I always do."

He walked away without another word.

I stood alone in the garden, surrounded by the wrong color roses, and tried to understand how my life had fallen apart so completely in a single afternoon.

Thirty days to marry Dominic Castellano.

One year to survive him.

God help me.