Part 2: The Woman Who Sent the Jet
Emma read the message three times.
Mrs. Weston, your jet is ready. Private terminal, Gate 4. Everything you need is waiting.
Her heart pounded.
There had to be a mistake.
She typed back.
Who is this?
The reply came almost immediately.
Margaret Blackwell. Your grandmother's attorney. We have been trying to reach you for weeks.
Emma froze.
Grandmother?
Her grandmother, Eleanor Blackwell, had died eight months earlier.
Andrew had barely allowed Emma time to attend the funeral.
"One old woman dies every day," he had said while checking stock prices on his phone.
The memory made her stomach twist.
Another message appeared.
Your grandmother left specific instructions. If your marriage ever became unsafe or unhappy, you were to be brought to Blackwell Estate immediately. Please come.
Emma stared out the rain-covered window.
She had never known.
Not really.
Her grandmother had been private about money.
Emma knew Eleanor owned vineyards and real estate somewhere in California, but she had never asked questions.
Now she suddenly wondered how much she had never been told.
"Change of destination," Emma said quietly to the driver.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Private terminal."
The driver nodded.
Forty minutes later she stepped onto a sleek Gulfstream jet.
A flight attendant greeted her warmly.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Weston."
Home.
Nobody had called any place home in years.
Not since before Andrew.
As the jet lifted into the night sky, Emma looked down at Manhattan.
The city grew smaller.
Then disappeared beneath the clouds.
For the first time in years, she felt something she had forgotten existed.
Freedom.
Back in Manhattan, Andrew Weston was having the best night of his life.
Or so he thought.
The headlines were already appearing online.
WALL STREET POWER COUPLE SPLITS?
ANDREW WESTON DEBUTS NEW ROMANCE
PREGNANT WIFE ABSENT AFTER CHARITY GALA DRAMA
Andrew laughed.
Publicity was publicity.
Lila sat on his lap inside the limousine.
"You finally got rid of her."
Andrew smirked.
"Emma never had the guts to leave."
His phone buzzed.
A message from his assistant.
Urgent. Need to speak immediately.
Andrew rolled his eyes.
"What now?"
The assistant sounded nervous.
"Sir... your wife filed for divorce."
Silence.
Andrew frowned.
"What?"
"The papers are signed."
Andrew sat up.
His irritation deepened.
"Fine. Let her throw a tantrum."
The assistant swallowed.
"There is more."
"What?"
"Mrs. Weston has disappeared."
Andrew laughed.
"She went to her parents."
"No, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"We tracked her car."
A pause.
"She boarded a private jet."
Andrew's smile vanished.
Something cold touched the back of his neck.
"Whose jet?"
"We don't know."
For the first time that evening...
Andrew felt uneasy.
The next morning Emma arrived in Napa Valley.
The estate waiting for her looked less like a house and more like a kingdom.
Rolling vineyards stretched across thousands of acres.
Stone buildings glowed beneath the California sunrise.
Employees lined the driveway.
Waiting.
Respectful.
Expectant.
An elderly attorney stepped forward.
"Welcome, Miss Blackwell."
Emma blinked.
"I think you have the wrong person."
The attorney smiled.
"No."
He handed her a folder.
"Everything here belongs to you."
Emma opened it.
Her breath stopped.
Vineyards.
Luxury hotels.
Commercial properties.
Investment portfolios.
Shipping companies.
The combined value sat near the bottom of the page.
$2.8 billion.
Her knees nearly gave out.
"What is this?"
"Your inheritance."
Emma stared.
The attorney's eyes softened.
"Your grandmother built an empire."
He paused.
"And she left all of it to you."
For the first time in years...
Emma realized she had never needed Andrew Weston at all.