Page 119 of When Love Found Us
“This first document,” Fitzhenry says, sliding a paper toward me, “is your official request for a name change. Once processed, it will legally recognize you as Blythe Timberbridge.”
I grab the pen and sign. No hesitation.
Henrietta Worthington—the name my parents chose to fit into their perfect, curated world—is now nothing more than a technicality.
Fitzhenry nods, flipping to the next page. “And this grants me power of attorney to handle the fucking inheritance on your behalf. No one will know where you are. The media will keep mourning the asshole you were attached to, and you’ll be free to disappear from that life. I’ll ensure the assets are liquidated and transferred per your instructions.”
I hesitate for the briefest second.
Taking anything from Winston makes my skin crawl.
Atlas steps behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. Warm. Solid.
“It’s just a tool, baby,” he murmurs. “Take it and make something good out of it.”
I exhale slowly.
He’s right.
Winston used money to control people. To cage them.
I’m using it to set people free.
I sign.
Fitzhenry slides the last document forward. “This final form transfers a portion of the inheritance into a trust for your future children and formally allocates the remaining funds to your charity.” He lifts a brow. “It’s a rare case, I must say. Most people in your position wouldn’t be so—altruistic.”
I scoff. “That money was built on corruption and suffering. If I left it to rot in some account, I’d be no better than him.”
Fitzhenry dips his chin, seemingly satisfied. “Then I’ll file everything today. Expect confirmation within the next few weeks.”
Atlas squeezes my shoulders, then presses a kiss to my temple.
I lean into him, my body exhaling tension I didn’t realize I was still holding.
It’s done.
Henrietta Worthington is nothing but a footnote now.
Blythe?
She’s real. And she’s never looking back.
I stare at the name on the line, the one I just signed in clean, confident letters.
Blythe Timberbridge.
Not Henrietta. Not Worthington.
Just me.
Fitzhenry collects the documents and stands, sliding the finalized copies across the desk. “Congratulations, Mrs. Timberbridge.”
“Thank you for everything,” I say and wave as he leaves the shop.
He leans in slightly, voice low, just for me. “Should I start calling you Mrs. Timberbridge every time I make you moan?”
Heat shoots down my spine. My face flames.
