Chapter Thirty-Six — The Call
(Amira Rivera — first person)
I don't remember how I got home from the courthouse.
I remember the sun hitting my eyes too hard when I stepped outside. I remember the way my heels clicked unevenly on the pavement, like my body had forgotten its rhythm. I remember standing at the curb longer than necessary, watching traffic move while my own life felt paused—suspended mid-sentence.
But the walk. The ride. The unlocking of my door.
That part is missing.
What I do remember is sitting on the edge of my bed, still in my blazer, staring at nothing while my phone buzzed on the nightstand like an insect trapped under glass.
I didn't pick it up right away.
After court, every call felt like it might finish something I wasn't ready to hear.
The buzz stopped. Then started again.
Unknown number.
I let it ring out.
It buzzed a third time.
Against my better judgment, I answered.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Rivera?" The voice was formal, accented—not local. European, maybe. Measured.
"Yes."
"My name is Anton Weiss. I'm calling from Weiss & Kühn Estate Services. This call is regarding the estate of Alejandro Rivera."
My stomach tightened.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I think you have the wrong person."
A pause. Papers shuffling.
"No," he replied. "You are Amira Lucía Rivera. Niece of Mr. Rivera through your father, Mateo Rivera."
I swallowed. "Yes… but I didn't know him."
"That is not uncommon," he said calmly. "Nevertheless, you are named in his will."
I laughed once, short and hollow. "This isn't funny."
"I assure you, Ms. Rivera, this is not a joke."
My fingers tightened around the phone. "What do you want?"
"To inform you that Mr. Rivera passed away last month."
The words landed strangely—not heavy, not light. Just… odd. A man I barely knew, a name I'd heard in passing as a child, suddenly gone.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, reflexively polite.
"He left behind a sizable estate," Anton continued. "And you are one of three beneficiaries."
My heart stuttered.
"I think," I said slowly, "you should repeat that."
There was another pause—this one deliberate.
"The estate is valued at approximately twenty-seven million U.S. dollars," he said. "Divided equally among three heirs."
The room tilted.
I pressed my free hand to the bed, grounding myself. "That's… not possible."
"Your share," he continued, undeterred, "comes to nine million dollars, subject to final processing and tax obligations."
Nine million.
The number didn't feel real. It felt like something you say in movies when you want the audience to gasp.
I didn't gasp.
I laughed again—but this time it broke halfway through and turned into something dangerously close to a sob.
"I don't have nine dollars to spare right now," I said hoarsely. "So if this is a scam—"
"It is not," Anton said gently. "You will receive documentation by secure email within the hour."
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed. My legs felt weak. My throat burned.
"Why?" I asked quietly.
"Mr. Rivera was very intentional," Anton replied. "He believed in… momentum. He believed wealth should reinforce ambition, not comfort complacency."
I closed my eyes.
"He owned three companies," Anton continued. "He monitored certain family members from afar. Not interfering. Only observing."
Observing.
The word sent a shiver through me.
"You were chosen," he said, simply.
After we hung up, I stayed there on the floor, phone pressed to my chest like it might anchor me to reality.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
The email arrived exactly forty-two minutes later.
Legal letterhead. Secure links. Names, dates, signatures.
It was real.
Nine million dollars.
Relief hit me like a wave breaking through my ribs—violent, overwhelming. My breath hitched, my vision blurring as something inside me finally cracked.
I pressed my face into my hands and let myself cry—not the neat kind. The ugly kind. The kind that comes when you've been holding your body together with wire and it finally snaps.
This didn't fix everything.
But it meant I wasn't drowning anymore.
The second call came an hour later.
This time, the number was international, but not unfamiliar in tone.
"Amira?" The woman's voice was warm, composed. Older. Kind, but not soft.
"Yes."
"This is Sofia Rivera," she said. "Alejandro's wife."
I stiffened instinctively. "Hello."
"I won't keep you long," she said. "I just wanted to speak with you personally."
"That's… unexpected."
"I imagine many things are unexpected today," she replied gently.
I said nothing.
"Alejandro watched from afar," Sofia continued. "He never wanted to intrude. But he paid attention. To your education. Your career. Your persistence."
My throat tightened. "I didn't know."
"He knew you lost your mother young," she said quietly. "He knew your father went to prison when you were still a girl."
The words hit harder than the money.
I closed my eyes.
"He believed that kind of loss either destroys ambition," Sofia continued, "or forges it."
I swallowed. "He barely knew me."
"He knew enough," she said. "Enough to recognize himself."
That did it.
Tears slipped down my cheeks again, silently this time.
"He was an ambitious man," Sofia went on. "Not kind all the time. Not easy. But principled in his own way. He believed those who keep going after the ground gives way deserve reinforcement."
I let out a shaky breath. "And the others?"
"Two cousins," she said. "Both building something. Both relentless."
I almost laughed. "The family won't like that."
Sofia chuckled softly. "They never do."
As if summoned by the thought, my phone buzzed with another call. And another.
Unknown numbers. Names I barely recognized.
"You'll hear from them," Sofia said knowingly. "They will be upset. They will feel entitled."
"I'm already familiar with that," I murmured.
She paused. "You seem… strong."
"I didn't have a choice."
"That's often how it starts," she replied.
Before hanging up, she added, "Alejandro would have been proud of you."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, heart pounding.
The calls didn't stop.
Cousins. Second cousins. An aunt I hadn't seen since my mother's funeral.
"Why you?"
"He barely knew you."
"This should've been divided evenly."
"You must've done something."
Each accusation echoed another voice I knew well.
Cassandra.
The court.
The internet.
The world's favorite pastime: questioning how a woman earns anything.
I ignored them.
I sat at my kitchen table instead, paperwork spread out in front of me, coffee long since gone cold. I thought about my mother—how she used to braid my hair before school, humming softly like the world wasn't cruel.
I thought about my father—how the night he was arrested, I stood in the doorway and watched my childhood collapse without understanding why.
I thought about ambition—not as greed, but as armor.
And I thought about Julian.
The inheritance didn't make his absence hurt less. If anything, it sharpened it.
He was still gone.
Still silent.
Still missing from the seat he'd promised to fill.
For the first time, I let myself consider the thought fully.
What if something happened to him?
The break-in.
The disabled tracker.
Eli.
My chest tightened.
I shook my head, pushing the thought away.
No.
That was desperation. That was the brain scrambling for patterns when reality refused to cooperate.
Julian was a grown man. Powerful. Capable.
If he was gone, it was because he chose to be.
I told myself that until it almost sounded convincing.
Later that night, after the calls slowed and the city outside my window settled into its restless hum, I opened my laptop again.
Not to check gossip.
Not to read filings.
I opened a blank document.
And I began to write names.
Private investigators.
Litigation firms.
Forensic accountants.
Not yet.
Soon.
The money didn't make me brave.
But it made me possible.
I looked at the confirmation email one last time before closing my laptop.
Nine million dollars.
Alejandro Rivera had watched me from afar and decided I was worth the investment.
Cassandra had watched me up close and decided I was worth destroying.
I stood at the window, city lights reflecting back at me, and whispered softly to the night:
"Okay."
My phone buzzed again—another unknown number, another relative.
I ignored it.
"Let's see how far you want to take this."
The city didn't answer.
But for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like it was closing in.
I felt like it was waiting.