The Real Heiress Don't Need Your Love novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Match

The DNA test comes back a match, Dot arrives with a calculator, and Abby sets terms with Anson in the car.

The doctor arrived at breakfast with a sealed envelope.

The butler had taken a strand of my hair in Dunmore, and the lab had been working on it for three days.

My father cut the envelope open with a silver knife and passed the page to the doctor.

"Ninety-nine point nine nine percent," the doctor read. "Mrs. Whitcroft, she is your biological daughter."

Nobody said anything.

Portia set down her teacup very gently.

My mother stared at the page and did not breathe.

Then she stood up so fast her chair fell over.

"A match on paper," she said. "I will never call her my daughter."

She walked out of the dining room.

Her hand was pressed flat against her ribs, and I saw it shake all the way to the door.

"Give her time," Lawrence said, with a sad smile. "Twenty-five years is a long time to mourn."

He raised his orange juice.

"To Abigail, home at last."

Portia lifted hers. Anson, at the end of the table, did not lift his.

"It's Abby," I said.

"Abby," my father said warmly. "Forgive an old man."

He took a thin folder from beside his plate and slid it down the table to me.

"Just a welcome packet. The family lawyer needs a signature on the receipt, nothing more."

A gold pen rolled out of the folder and stopped against my plate.

I looked at the pen.

I looked at Anson, who was looking hard at his eggs.

"I'll read it first," I said.

"Of course." My father laughed. "A true accountant."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I am."

I left the pen where it lay and ate my toast.

Portia caught me in the hall and hugged me hard.

She smelled of vanilla and clean laundry.

"I'm so glad it's you," she said into my shoulder. "I mean it, Abby. I never wanted any of this."

"Any of what?"

"The ring. The shares. Anson." She laughed, a small bright laugh. "He's all yours."

She squeezed my hands, and then she was gone up the stairs.

I stood there thinking that nobody should be that nice before nine in the morning.

A horn blared outside.

Then a second horn, longer, and then a voice I knew better than my own.

"ABBY RUDKIN! OPEN THIS GATE OR I AM CLIMBING IT!"

I ran down the front steps.

A dented green Corolla sat at the iron gates, with a woman in a bright orange cardigan hanging half out the window.

Dot Hendry had short red hair, a huge duffel bag and a desktop calculator in her fist.

"You said you were fine," she shouted. "You texted me one smiley face. You hate smiley faces!"

"Dot, how did you get time off?"

"I told the boss my cat died."

"You don't have a cat."

"He doesn't know that." She looked past me at the stone mansion. "Abby, there are gargoyles. Real ones."

"I know."

"Is somebody going to throw me out?"

"They'd have to throw me out first."

The butler let her in without a word and took the duffel bag from her hand.

Dot walked up the drive with her mouth open and the calculator held to her chest.

"Okay," she said. "Which one of these people do I hate?"

"Give it a day."

An engine rumbled behind us.

A black car had stopped at the foot of the steps, and Anson Rotherham was holding the rear door open.

"Get in," he said to me. "You owe me a morning."

"I owe you nothing."

"You owe me a week of credit," he said. "I'm taking you to see what you did."

I gave Dot the folder from breakfast. "Read every page. Highlight anything with a dollar sign."

"With joy," she said.

I got into the car.

For ten minutes neither of us spoke.

The Connecticut hills slid by outside, gold and wet.

"You said you'd marry me," I finally said.

"I did."

"Then we're doing this properly. Terms."

He glanced at me in the mirror.

"One. The engagement stays public, and that's all it is."

"Two. We sleep in separate rooms."

"Three. I keep my own books, and I audit yours. Nobody hides anything from the other one."

"Four. No talk about love. Neither of us."

I held up four fingers.

He looked at them for a long moment.

"Agreed," he said.

I had expected an argument.

"That was quick."

"You'd be surprised how good I am at not hoping," Anson said.

The car swung into a glass tower in Stamford, and the doors opened.

The lobby was full of men in dark suits carrying thin black briefcases.

All of them turned toward Anson at the same time.

The oldest one stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Mr. Rotherham," he said. "We've reviewed your account. The credit line ends Friday."

Anson did not blink.

"Then Friday," he said, "is when you'll find out what my fiancée can do."

I turned and stared at him.

I had not agreed to that.

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