Disney World.
Her parents laughing.
Her mother holding her tight.
Four days before the plane crash.
Ava sat up, the familiar emptiness settling in her chest—the kind of silence that screams.
She put on her navy school uniform, white socks, black shoes.
The house wasn’t a home anymore.
It was a museum.
Downstairs, the kitchen was spotless, cold, echoing. The sound of her spoon against the bowl rang like she was alone in a cathedral.
Then Marianne Lewis walked in.
She was in her mid-50s, warm-eyed, calm. She’d been her parents’ closest friend—and now Ava’s legal guardian.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Marianne said gently. “Did you sleep?”
Ava shrugged.
“I dreamed about the plane again.”
Marianne squeezed her shoulder.
“Grief doesn’t follow a schedule.”
At 8:15, the doorbell rang.
Edward Collins, the family attorney for decades, arrived—sharp suit, calm voice, authority without effort.
They sat at the table. Ava between two adults. A child carrying an empire.
“Ava,” Edward said, opening his briefcase. “Tell me what you inherited.”
She swallowed.
“Eighty-seven percent of Richardson Global. Worth… about four billion dollars.”
“And the remaining thirteen percent?”
“The board.”