My name was written across the front.
Not Christopher Bennett.
Christopher Vale.
My heart stopped.
“Where did you get that?”
Eleanor’s voice softened.
“Your father gave it to me twenty-six years ago.”
PART 8 — THE LETTER THAT HAD WAITED TWENTY-SIX YEARS
I couldn’t move.
The envelope looked ancient.
Yellowed at the corners.
Sealed.
My original name written in handwriting I had never seen.
I looked at Eleanor.
“You knew my father?”
She nodded.
“How?”
“Thomas worked for me.”
The room became painfully quiet.
“When?”
“Long before Halston Capital became what it is today.”
She looked down.
“Your father was one of the first people who believed my husband and I could build something.”
I slowly sat.
Eleanor continued.
“He was twenty-four when I met him. Brilliant. Reckless. Funny. Always late.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“That sounds unfortunate.”
“He once arrived forty minutes late to a financing meeting because he stopped to help a man whose truck had broken down.”
