“Jo?” she says. Her voice is alarmed. “Are you ok?”
“Yes. I’m … on a private plane,” I breathe. “Solo.”
There’s a pause. “What?” she blurts. “Are you joking?”
“No joke,” I tell her and lean back, amazed at the plush comfort surrounding me. “There’s a stewardess just for me. Food, drinks. They actually have caviar. I’m … I can’t even. This is insane.”
She laughs, a breathless ‘you have to be kidding me’ kind of laugh. “You’re living every poor-girl-comes-good fantasy right now. I hate you.”
“No, don’t hate me. Be jealous instead.”
We both laugh, then Serena insists I send photos. Her awe leaks through the cell phone like a warm tide, and it helps calm the swirling chaos in my chest. When we finally say our goodbyes, I settle back in my seat to wait for the caviar and perhaps another glass of champagne too.
Chapter
Four
JO
Eight hours later, some caviar, two glasses of champagne, a delicious English breakfast, a ton of coffee, and a lovely nap, we land on another private airstrip in the United States of America. The time is 12.30am EST.
An official comes onto the plane and inspects my passport and gives me his nod of approval. Apparently, I’m clear to enter the country. I’m guided off the plane by one of the airport staff. There is no customs or baggage aisle to negotiate, and I’m taken directly to a waiting room to find a middle-aged man with iron-gray hair waiting for me. He is impeccably dressed in a dark suit, with thin framed steel glasses halfway down his nose.
“Gavin Hampstead,” he says, holding his hand out. For some reason, I expected his hand to be cool, but it is warm against my skin. “Welcome to New York, Miss Button.”
“Thank you.”
As I withdraw my hand, he smiles, but there’s a graveness to it that instinctively makes my stomach knot.
“I’m very sorry,” he says quietly. “But I’m afraid your father passed away while you were in transit.”
His words are unexpected and leave me strangely hollow and detached. Grief is supposed to hit harder, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I feel a tidal wave of loss? But the man was a stranger, the father I never knew. Even so, the moment doesn’t leave me entirely without feelings. There is confusion, definitely that, and a soft twist of something that feels like guilt and sorrow rolled together. My lips press into a thin line.
“I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time,” I murmur.
“It’s not your fault. You did your best,” Gavin says sincerely. “He left instructions for you when he realized you wouldn’t make it in time. He wanted you to follow through with certain steps.”
My curiosity spikes above my swirling emotions. “Steps?”
“Yes.” Gavin hands me a swab. “First, a DNA test to confirm his paternity.”
I glance at it, annoyed. “You called me, not the other way around, and now I have to be the one to prove myself?”
“There is much at stake, and it’s standard procedure, in case there are any legal challenges from other family members,” he explains calmly. “Once I have your sample, we can head out to the house, and discuss the other matters you have to attend to; the funeral, the reading of his will, that sort of thing.”
My sense of fair play wins over my annoyance. With a sigh, I take the swab. Feeling quite absurd, I press it to the inside of my cheek and twist it around before handing it back. Gavin carefully pops it into a glass tube and seals it all in a clear bag.
“I think it’s time to tell you who your father was,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I’m sure you will have heard of him. He was a very prominent figure. His name was Joseph Manswell.”
What? I blink. No, it can’t be. He can’t mean … “The tech billionaire, Joseph Manswell?” I finally venture cautiously, still in total disbelief.
Gavin nods.
The world tilts, and I stare at him in shock. Wow! Joseph Manswell, one of the most influential, most celebrated, smartest, and richest men in the world, was my father. I swallow hard. It’s almost too fantastical to believe. I am the daughter of a freaking billionaire! The world tilts again.
If it wasn’t for the seriousness of the moment, I would be certain this whole thing is a wind-up, but Gavin doesn’t look like the kind of man to prank anyone, let alone pay for a transatlantic flight on a private plane for a joke.
“I … right,” I manage. “Ok. That’s … wow.”