Page 18 of Knot Your Pucking Secret

It echoes through the silence, carrying far more weight than I think Julian intended. My eyes drift back to the thick estate file resting on the desk. It suddenly feels…heavier. Like every page inside carries another piece of the life that was stolen from me. Julian gives me a moment before opening the file.

“I know this is overwhelming,” he says, his tone quiet. “Believe me when I tell you, we’re only going to take this one step at a time. However long you need, I’m here.”

I nod, grateful for the measured pace. He slides the first document from the folder and places it neatly in front of me beside my parents’ estate file.

“This,” he begins, “is your parents’ final will and testament.”

I glance over the heading before my eyes fall to my parents’ signatures at the bottom of the page. My mother’s. My father’s. Proof they planned for a future they never got to see.

Julian waits while I collect myself.

“They were exceptionally organized people. Your father mostly. He was a stickler for the rules. He did come from a long line of lawyers, such as yourself.”

At least that part had been true. I was beginning to question everything Brett had ever told me.

“Particularly after you were born, every single asset they owned was reviewed. Every beneficiary designation was updated. Every trust was rewritten.”

I look up.

“They really did plan for everything. Even their own deaths.”

“They wanted to be sure you were looked after. They named guardians for you. Established trusts. Updated their insurances and even restructured their corporate holdings.”

His finger comes to rest beside my birth name.

Lennon Ozzy Welsh.

Wait.

“I’m guessing they shared a love for music?” I say, raising a brow in his direction. The girls are going to have a field day when they learn my middle name.

A fond smile spreads across Julian’s face.

“They certainly did,” he chuckles. “Your father couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but he sure loved to try. Your mother, on the other hand. She was a songbird. Your grandfather came around to Ozzy eventually,” he says, wiping the corner of his eye as he shakes his head. “Your father insisted you came into this world kicking and screaming.”

I laugh, the sound surprising even me.

“And singing, apparently.”

“Apparently,” Julian agrees. “Your mother swore you settled the moment she started humming. She used to say music was your first language. But it was your father who knew you’d been born with fire. Something is telling me he was right about that.”

The warmth between us lingers for only a moment before Julian carefully places another document before me. His expression shifts, the fond smile replaced by calm professionalism.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to the folders that have now formed into a stack on the desk in front of me. “As much as I could spend all day telling your stories about your parents, I imagine you’re here because you want answers.”

I nod. He’s right.

“I do.”

“Under normal circumstances, the estate would have transferred directly to you upon their deaths. Because your body was never recovered, your grandfather challenged the immediate distribution of the estate. He argued there was insufficient evidence to extinguish your legal interest entirely.”

I furrow my brow.

“He thought I was alive?”

“He hoped,” Julian corrects gently. “Hope isn’t evidence in a courtroom. But it was enough for him to fight to preserve what your parents intended for you.”

He turns another page. And I realize now he has a copy of the same document.