Chapter 319: [4.137] A Father’s Final Words

The sisters kept at it, their voices weaving together in patterns that spoke of countless similar arguments. Harlow would make some cutting observation about Vivienne’s organizational tendencies, Vivienne would fire back with commentary about Harlow’s approach to literally anything, Cassidy would try to mediate while somehow making things worse, and Sabrina would interject with dry observations that made everyone pause before the cycle started again. It was almost musical. A dysfunctional symphony they’d been rehearsing since childhood.

I watched the Manhattan skyline slide past through the tinted glass, my thoughts drifting toward what was coming.

Camille Valentine.

The woman who’d taken four daughters and shaped them into rivals. Who’d taken her dying husband’s company and restructured it as a battlefield for succession. Who’d built walls between her children for years with carefully placed incentives and competition, then seemed genuinely baffled when they stood on opposite sides of every family discussion. The Ice Queen of Valentine Holdings, feared by executives twice her age, respected by an industry that rarely respected anyone.

And in six hours, I’d be sitting across from her in some penthouse that probably cost more than my entire apartment building, explaining why I was in relationships with all four of her daughters simultaneously.

Yeah. That should go great.

The thought alone was enough to make me want to close my eyes and pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Maybe back in Philadelphia, where the most complicated thing I had to worry about was whether Iris finished her homework.

The car eventually pulled up outside a building that looked more like a museum than a bank. The Chase Manhattan branch on Fifth Avenue was exactly what I expected from a place that stored billion-dollar inheritances. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine reflected brass fixtures that probably cost more than my tuition. Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings painted with scenes of old money mythology. The security guards wore suits nicer than anything I owned and probably earned more per hour than I did in a full night at the bar.

We entered together, the sisters unconsciously forming a protective circle around me as we crossed the lobby. I noticed it without commenting. The way Harlow drifted to my left, Cassidy to my right. How Vivienne positioned herself slightly ahead while Sabrina hung back to watch our flank. They probably didn’t even realize they were doing it.

The bank manager appeared almost immediately. Mr. Castellan was in his mid-fifties, wearing an expensive suit and an expression of barely controlled nervousness. His eyes locked on Sabrina first, then swept across the rest of us with growing confusion.

"Miss Valentine." He cleared his throat. "I received your call this morning. The safety deposit box has been prepared for access, though I feel compelled to mention this is rather irregular. That particular account hasn’t seen any activity in almost four years."

"My father left specific instructions," Sabrina said, her tone brooking no argument. "We were to wait for the appropriate time."

Mr. Castellan nodded, clearly accustomed to the peculiarities of wealthy clients. "Of course. Please, follow me."

The vault lay underground, accessible only after three separate security checkpoints and a door that looked capable of withstanding a nuclear blast. Mr. Castellan guided us into a small private viewing room, then retrieved a metal container roughly the dimensions of a shoebox from its place among hundreds of identical boxes lining the walls.

"I’ll leave you to it," he said, backing toward the exit. "Take whatever time you require."

The door sealed behind him with a muted click.

The four of them stood frozen, staring at the box. Nobody reached for it.

"Brina," Harlow whispered. "The key."

Sabrina’s hands trembled as she lifted the chain from around her neck. The bronze key caught the overhead lights as she inserted it into the lock, her fingers unsteady.

She drew a breath. Turned the key.

The lock released with a soft click.

Inside, carefully wrapped in protective plastic, lay a thick stack of legal documentation. The original will, officially notarized with three independent witness signatures. Letters between Richard Valentine and his legal team discussing his wishes for his daughters’ futures. A comprehensive breakdown of his holdings at the time of his death.

And beneath everything else, four sealed envelopes. Each bore a name written in Richard Valentine’s distinctive script.

Sabrina. Cassidy. Vivienne. Harlow.

The silence stretched out.

Cassidy moved first. Her hand darted into the box, closing around the envelope marked with her name. She clutched it against her chest like she was afraid it might vanish.

Vivienne reached for hers next, then Harlow. Both of them shaking. Both already crying.

Sabrina took hers last. She lifted it with infinite care, treating the paper like something that might shatter at the slightest pressure.

"Letters," she said, her voice fracturing around the word. "He left us individual letters."

I took a step back, creating distance. This moment belonged to them alone. A final message from a father who’d loved them enough to plan for a future he wouldn’t survive to see.

Cassidy tore into her envelope first, ripping through the seal with trembling fingers. She unfolded the paper and began reading.

The transformation in her face was devastating. The armor she’d worn for years crumbled, revealing something raw and young and desperately hurt underneath. Tears tracked down her cheeks. She didn’t bother wiping them away.

"He knew." The words came out barely above a whisper. "He knew I wasn’t stupid. He knew I just learned differently. He said..." She stopped, swallowing hard. "He called me his little firecracker. Said I was going to set the world on fire. Said he was sorry he wouldn’t be there to watch."

Harlow read hers in silence, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Vivienne’s careful composure finally broke completely, her tablet forgotten on the table as she pressed her letter to her chest and wept without sound or shame.

Sabrina finished reading last. She moved slowly through each line, absorbing every word like she was committing them to permanent memory. When she finally looked up, her purple eyes were wet with tears, but her expression held something that looked like relief.

"He loved us," she said. Simple. Direct. "He loved us, and he left us everything we’d need to fight back. The will. The documentation. Proof that Mother altered everything after his death."

"And the letters," Harlow added, her voice thick. "So we’d know. So we’d remember we weren’t alone. That we never were."