I was summoned to my ex-husband’s father’s will reading a year after our divorce—and when the attorney opened the file, he looked straight at me instead of the family and said, “Ms. Rowan, I’m glad you’re here.” In that moment, I realized this wasn’t going to be an ordinary reading. Whatever Robert Whitlock had left behind, it was about to change everything.

Required.

The word haunted me all weekend.

Now, standing inside a downtown Los Angeles notary office, I refused to sit. My arms were folded tightly across my chest, as if sheer determination could keep my heartbeat from giving me away.

Attorney Leonard Harris adjusted his glasses and offered me a polite smile.
“Ms. Rowan,” he said, “I’m pleased you decided to attend.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” I replied.

His expression didn’t change.