CHAPTER 55: HIGHJACKING THE HEIR

RAINE DROP (BELMONT)

The Belmont "old house" wasn’t so much a house as it was a monument to generational wealth. It had an old-money architectural grandeur that made Grandma Nettie’s luxurious lake house seem like a quaint cottage in comparison.

Marble floors stretched out like frozen rivers, polished to such a high shine that I caught my own reflection scowling back at me—disheveled and bruised (Grandma Nettie fought dirty).

Chandeliers dangled overhead like crystal spiders, each one probably worth more than the average person’s yearly salary. The walls were lined with portraits of dead Belmonts, all of whom seemed to be judging me from beyond the grave. "Ah, Raine," their painted eyes seemed to say, "do you think you really belong to this family?"

Not really. Because the only family I’d ever had was my grandmother, and she wasn’t going to be in the world for much longer.

Speaking of Grandma Nettie...

I unceremoniously hauled my furious grandmother into the grand parlor like a sack of very opinionated potatoes and placed her on a Louis XVI settee that probably had a museum plaque hidden somewhere under its gilded legs. She looked absurdly out of place—a wiry, sharp-tongued woman in a frayed cardigan sitting on furniture that had likely been upholstered with the tears of French aristocrats.

"This is kidnapping," she announced, for the third time in ten minutes.

"It’s protective custody," I corrected, plopping down into an armchair that immediately tried to swallow me whole. (Note: Belmont furniture was designed to make you feel small and poor.)

"I don’t think the previous kidnapper gets to complain about being the current kidnappee," said Grandpa Belmont.

"What are you going to do?" Grandma crossed her arms and glared at Grandpa Belmont. "Tape my mouth shut?"

"Don’t tempt me," muttered Grandpa.

Nettie crossed her arms. "Daniel, I’m not staying here. I want to go back to my lake house."

Grandpa Belmont rubbed his temples. "Nettie, you can barely walk without wheezing. You need proper care."

"I don’t want

proper care. I want to sit on my porch, yell at squirrels, and die in peace."

"You will die in peace," he said. "Just... not yet. And not in a house that looks like it lost a fight with a machine gun."

I could tell my grandmother was tired, but she was stubborn. Her body had already betrayed her, though, and not even Nettie Drop’s infamous willpower could win against the cancer ravaging her. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

Daniel Belmont, my actual genetically-related grandfather, stared at her with regret in his eyes. What did he regret? Her illness? Her secret child? Her demand that he recognize me?

I looked around, feeling uncomfortable in the so-called old house. The Belmont estate wasn’t a home—it was a mausoleum with chandeliers. Every polished surface, every oil painting of some long-dead ancestor, seemed designed to remind you that you didn’t belong unless your bloodline came with a crest and a trust fund. And mine didn’t.

I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about the name. The only thing that had ever mattered was my grandmother.

Grandma Nettie looked ridiculous on that antique settee—she was a storm cloud perched on a throne of gold leaf and pretension. She coughed, rough and wet, and my chest tightened.

Not yet. Not yet.

Grandpa Belmont leaned against the huge stone fireplace like a man who’d spent decades bracing himself against Nettie Drop’s particular brand of chaos.

Nettie’s glare could have stripped paint. "I borrowed you. You dragged me."

"You were coughing up a lung in that ... that shack," said grandpa.

"Only you would call my three-million dollar house a shack. Besides, it’s my shack."

"And it’s full of bullet holes."

"So? I like the breeze."

Grandpa sighed. "Nettie, you need real care. Doctors. Treatment."

"No treatment." Her voice was steel, but her hands shook. "I need my house. My things."

I swallowed hard. She wasn’t just stubborn—she was scared. Scared of hospitals, of pity, of dying anywhere but on her own terms.

I got it. I did. But I wasn’t ready to let go.

"You can stay of your own free will or I can tie you up in a bedroom of your own choosing." Daniel Belmont might be 84-years-old, but I could see the shadow of the CEO he used to be. Powerful. In-command. Ruthless.

My grandmother crossed her arms. "Asshole. Fine. I’ll stay. But I have conditions."

Of course you do.

"One: I get to die at the lake house. Two: No funeral and you throw my ashes into the lake. Three: You recognize Raine as a Belmont before I bite the big one." She pointed a shaking finger at him. "I raised your daughter and your grandson. You owe me."

"I’ll recognize him as my grandson at my birthday banquet in two weeks," he said. "But I won’t name him the Belmont heir." He exhaled. "Not yet."

"I don’t need to be the Belmont heir," I said.

"But you should," insisted my grandmother. "You were born. Whether or not it was too married parents is irrelevant. You’re the oldest."

"Vanessa’s been trained her whole life to take over the Belmont Group," said Daniel. "Raine isn’t prepared."

"Who says?" My grandmother sat up, obviously feeling indignant. "He has two degrees, one of them is a masters, thank you very much. He’s been running my little company for the last five years."

I saw Grandpa Belmont look at me with new appreciation.

I should’ve felt something—pride, vindication, something. But all I could think was: What’s the point?

A name wouldn’t make them love me. Money wouldn’t make them stay.

I wandered over to the grand piano, trailing my fingers across the keys without pressing down.

"So," I said, too lightly. "Do I get a monogrammed sweater vest now?"

Grandpa gave me a look—not annoyed, not amused. Just... assessing. Like he was trying to figure me out.

Nettie snorted. "He’ll make the Belmont Group bulletproof, Danny. Don’t let him fool you."

I forced a grin. "Just promise no one’s gonna make me wear boat shoes."

Grandpa’s mouth twitched. "No guarantees."

It was a joke. Just a joke. But for a second, I let myself wonder: Could they? Could these people, with their marble floors and their family trees, ever really be—

Nettie coughed again, harsh and rattling, and the thought shattered.

Grandpa Belmont cleared his throat, straightening his tie like he was preparing for a boardroom negotiation rather than a family standoff.

"Raine," he said, his voice measured, "if you’re going to be part of this family, there are expectations."

I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess—no tattoos, no scandals, and absolutely no public brawls with paparazzi?"

"Preferably not," he said dryly. "But more importantly, you’ll need to learn the business. The Belmont Group isn’t just a company. It’s a legacy."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I know how to run a business."

"Not like this one." His gaze was unyielding. "You’ve managed Nettie’s investments and been the CEO of a very small company, but the Belmont Group operates on a different scale. International holdings, political ties, shareholders who’d sell their own mothers for a fraction of a percentage point."

Grandma Nettie scoffed. "He’s not an idiot, Daniel. He’ll figure it out."

Grandpa ignored her. "Starting tomorrow, you’ll meet with our CFO. Then legal. Then—"

"Whoa, whoa." I held up a hand. "I didn’t agree to any of this."

"You don’t have a choice," he said, and for the first time, I heard the steel beneath the old-man grumpiness. "If you’re a Belmont, you act like one."

I clenched my jaw. "And if I don’t want to?"

His expression didn’t change. "Then you walk away. But Nettie’s conditions only stand if you’re part of this family."

A low blow. Even for him.

Grandma Nettie’s eyes flashed. "Daniel, you manipulative old—"

"It’s fine," I cut in before she could finish. My voice came out colder than I intended. "I’ll play along. For now."

Grandpa nodded, satisfied. "Good. Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late."

With that, he strode out of the parlor, leaving me alone with Grandma Nettie and the weight of a thousand unspoken grievances.

She waited until his footsteps faded before muttering, "Pompous bastard."

I sank back into the armchair, suddenly exhausted. "You’re the one who wanted me here."

"Not like this." She reached over, her bony fingers gripping my wrist. "Listen to me, Raine. You don’t owe them anything. Not him, not this house, not the damn name. If you want to walk, you walk."

I studied her face—the sharp angles, the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce love in her eyes that had never once wavered. She meant it. She’d fight for me, even now.

But I also knew what she wasn’t saying: she wouldn’t be around much longer to fight.

"I know," I said softly. "But I’m not leaving you."

She squeezed my wrist once before letting go. "Then you’d better learn to play the game."

A knock at the door interrupted us. A woman in a crisp black suit stepped in, her expression professionally neutral. "Mr. Belmont asked me to show you to your room, Mr. Drop."

"Belmont," Grandma Nettie corrected sharply. "It’s Mr. Belmont now."

The woman blinked but didn’t argue. "Of course. Mr. Belmont."

I stood, offering Grandma my arm. "Come on. Let’s see if the guest rooms come with golden toilets."

She cackled, leaning on me as we followed the woman out. "If they don’t, I’m filing a complaint."

Two weeks until I became an official Belmont.

Two weeks to decide if I even wanted to join this complicated, wealthy, crazy family.

Two weeks.