Page 89 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
By the time the police arrived, I was miles away, driving through the empty Chicago streets with William Beaumont’s blood still under my fingernails.
My phone buzzed. Text message from Eleanor:Missing you. Come home safe.
I typed back:On my way. It’s finished.
And it was. William Beaumont was dead, his threats neutralized, his schemes buried with him. The world would mourn the tragic death of a prominent businessman, victim of a violent robbery gone wrong.
Eleanor was finally free. Free from the man who’d never wanted her, never loved her, never saw her as anything more than an unwelcome reminder of his wife’s betrayal.
Now she could focus on building the life she deserved. The life we were building together.
I drove home to my wife, leaving William Beaumont’s corpse behind like the piece of shit he’d always been.
Epilogue – Eleanor
Eight months later, I was standing in a courthouse holding papers that proved I was worth fifty-three million dollars. Papers that came with William Beaumont’s name on them, even though the bastard was six feet underground and probably rolling in his grave.
“You sure about this?” The lawyer, some expensive suit named Harrison, looked at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Your father’s will explicitly states that you’re not his biological daughter and therefore not entitled to inheritance.”
“My father’s will can go fuck itself.” I set the documents down on his mahogany desk with more force than necessary. “Illinois law is clear. If a child doesn’t know the truth about their paternity until they’re twenty-one, and the legal father never challenged it during their lifetime, then the inheritance stands.”
Harrison shifted uncomfortably. “Mrs. Voronov, while that’s technically correct, the estate executors are likely to fight this. They’ll argue that you’ve known about your true parentage for months.”
“But I didn’t know until after my twenty-first birthday.” I leaned forward, letting him see the steel in my eyes. “And we have evidence. Letters, photos, testimonies from people who knew about William’s knowledge of my parentage from day one.”
“The burden of proof….”
“Has already been met.” Maxim’s voice cut through the lawyer’s stammering. He placed a thick folder on the desk between us. “Bank records showing William made payments to silence witnesses. Medical records proving he knew Ruth was pregnant when he married her. Legal documents where he claimed Eleanor as his dependent for tax purposes.”
I watched Harrison’s face pale as he flipped through the evidence. Twenty-one years of William Beaumont playing father to a child he despised, all documented in black and white.
“This is…comprehensive,” Harrison admitted.
“It’s fucking bulletproof,” I corrected. “William spent two decades pretending to be my father while plotting to kill me. He doesn’t get to deny me what’s legally mine just because he’s dead.”
Harrison looked between Maxim and me, clearly wondering how he’d gotten stuck mediating a battle between a dead construction mogul and a very alive Bratva couple.
“I have to ask, Mrs. Voronov. Why do you want this inheritance? Your husband’s…business ventures…certainly provide adequate financial security.”
I felt Maxim tense beside me, that familiar predatory stillness that meant someone was about to say something very stupid.
“Because I don’t want that piece of shit finding peace in his grave,” I said simply. “Every dollar of his precious empire that goes to me is a dollar that proves he failed. Failed to break me, failed to kill me, failed to erase me from his legacy.”
The truth was, I didn’t want William’s money. Didn’t want his properties or his companies or any reminder of the man who’d made my childhood a cold, loveless wasteland. But Maxim had fought for my inheritance rights with the same brutal determination he brought to everything else, and I understood why.
This wasn’t about money. This was about justice. About making sure William Beaumont’s final act of spite failed as spectacularly as everything else he’d tried to do to me.
Three hours later, we walked out of that courthouse with legal documents declaring me the inheritor of the Beaumont Construction empire. I immediately signed papers donatingforty million to various charities, keeping just enough to fund my fashion business and tell William’s ghost to go fuck itself.
“You realize his business partners are going to hate you now,” Maxim said as we drove through downtown Chicago.
“Good. Let them hate me. Let them know that the daughter he tried to erase just inherited everything he built.” I rolled down the window, letting the spring air whip through my hair. “Besides, they can’t hate me more than he did.”
That evening, we drove to my mother’s new place. She’d moved into Garrison’s penthouse after the divorce was finalized, and for the first time in my adult life, I’d seen her actually smile. Really smile, not the practiced politician’s wife smile she’d worn for twenty-one years.
The penthouse was everything William’s mansion wasn’t. Warm. Lived-in. Full of art and books and the kind of comfortable chaos that came from two people who actually enjoyed each other’s company.
“Eleanor.” Garrison stood up when we walked in, and I felt that familiar flutter of recognition. Not memory, exactly, but something deeper. Something genetic.