She did love me. In the only way she could. Even when she was too shattered to show it the way a mother should. I swallow hard, my throat tightening, but I don’t look away.

This is the first time Ledger isn’t looking at me like I’m an outsider. And today I do believe I belong that I’m part of the Timberbridge brothers.

Chapter Forty-Four

Blythe

It takes a week for Atlas’s lawyer to make it to Birchwood Springs. A week of waiting, knowing what’s coming, knowing I’m about to erase the last piece of the girl I used to be.

Fitzhenry Everhart arrives with the paperwork to change my name, pushing everything through faster than the law should allow—but money bends rules, and Atlas made sure I wouldn’t have to wait. Soon, Blythe Timberbridge will be real, and Henrietta will be nothing more than ink on forgotten documents.

It’ll take a little time, but that’s all I need to access my inheritance.

Oh, yes. I’m a very wealthy woman now.

Winston Reginald Worthington IV was so arrogant, so untouchable in his own mind, that he never considered he’d stop breathing one day. No will. No instructions. No contingency plan for a world without him in it.

Because he believed he was eternal.

And now? Henrietta Worthington is the sole heir to his estate. The thought makes my stomach churn. I don’t want a single cent of his blood money.

But Atlas—stubborn, infuriatingly practical Atlas—convinced me to set up a trust for our future kids. Just enough to cover college, to make sure they never struggle. Not that we won’t work hard to give them everything they need, but it’s good to cover our bases.

The rest?

It’s going where it should have gone a long time ago.

A charity. A nonprofit I’m creating for women like me. For children like the Timberbridge brothers—kids who grew up afraid of the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

I sit at the shop’s counter, flipping through the thick stack of legal papers as Fitzhenry lays everything out in front of me. His suit is crisp, his tie perfect, his voice clipped and efficient. But for all his polished professionalism, he curses like a drunken sailor. According to Atlas, he always does, especially when dealing with legal messes like this.

“This first document,” Fitzhenry says, sliding a paper toward me, “is your official request for a name change. Once processed, it will legally recognize you as Blythe Timberbridge.”

I grab the pen and sign. No hesitation.

Henrietta Worthington—the name my parents chose to fit into their perfect, curated world—is now nothing more than a technicality.