Page 15 of One Night with Cinderella

Four

Two weeks later

Monica trembled so hard that the letter she held clutched in both her hands rattled as if unsettled by wind. But she was secure from the spring breezes inside the posh Manhattan law offices. It was her nerves that caused the tremble. The shock of it all.

“Miss Darby?”

She heard the attorney, but his voice sounded distant instead of that of a man across the desk from her. She released small breaths as she looked down at the skirt of her print dress, remembering how much she’d fretted if it was the right thing to wear to an appointment with a high-powered lawyer.

Especially when I didn’t know what it was about at the time. I hope it’s okay.

Monica knew her random thoughts were a diversion from the truth she’d just been told.

“Do you understand what I’ve explained?” he asked. “You’ve been left an inheritance by Brock Maynard—”

“The actor?” she asked, although he’d already given her his name. She shifted her eyes to the bald portly man with thick, framed spectacles. “In all the movies?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Your father.”

Monica’s lip curled as she shook her head. “Not my father. He was a sperm donor,” she said snidely, feeling overcome with all the years of sadness and loneliness she had felt. For so long she had wondered who her parents were and why they hadn’t been able—or wanted to—raise her. And she’d thought of everything. Even their deaths.

Discovering that her father was a wealthy and famous actor was worse.

Had been an actor. Now he’s dead.

She looked around at the high ceilings, upscale decor and the New York skyline so clearly seen out the windows. This was the world of the Cress family and those of that ilk. Wealthy and affluent. Smart and talented. She could easily see Gabe sitting behind the desk with all the confidence and bravado needed to control the room.

She felt out of place. Like an intruder into his world.

Gabe.

Why am I thinking about him right now? Why am I always thinking of him?

She bit her bottom lip at the memory of their encounter beneath the twinkling fairy lights entwined among the flowers of the pergola.

Because I can’t forget that night.

“Miss Darby.”

You’re beautiful.

“Miss Darby?”

Monica cut her eyes back at the attorney. “Yes?” she answered with a simplicity that made her wonder if she had lost her mind.

Yesterday afternoon FedEx had delivered a letter requesting her presence at the law offices of Curro Villar and Hunt. She’d looked them up, saw that they were reputable—and not attorneys hired as creditors—and called to make her appointment with Marco Villar as requested.

That’s his name. Villar. Marco Villar.

And now, nearly five minutes later—maybe more than that—after being escorted into his posh offices in her inexpensive dress from a discount store, by a towering beauty who could be a model, Monica was still held fixated by a blend of confusion, shock and, yes, hurt.

“There is just one provision to receive the money,” Mr. Villar said.

Something in his dark eyes behind the glasses let her know his next words would hurt. She stiffened her back and notched her chin.

“You must sign a nondisclosure agreement—”

Monica released a bitter laugh as she jumped to her feet. “The final insult,” she said, her voice soft. “Not wanting to claim me even in death.”

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