A Legacy of Broken Vows

Jocelyn

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I say. The words feel like sandpaper in my throat. “Could you repeat that?”

Mr. Davies, my late grandfather’s lawyer, doesn’t even have the decency to look uncomfortable. He adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze as flat and sterile as the mahogany desk between us. He looks like a man who delivers bad news for a living and sleeps soundly at night.

“Certainly, Ms. Foster,” he says, his voice a dry rustle of paper. “The marriage certificate you provided, the one registered eight years ago under your name and Mr. Zayn Maddox’s, is a forgery.”

Ms. Foster. Not Mrs. Maddox. The change is a surgical cut, precise and deep. My fingers tighten on the leather straps of my purse. Inside, tucked into a velvet pouch, is the ultrasound photo. Two tiny, flickering heartbeats. A secret I was going to share with my husband tonight, over champagne and the city lights from our penthouse balcony.

“That’s not possible,” I whisper. “We were married at the botanical conservatory. My grandfather walked me down the aisle. We had over a hundred guests.”

“You had a lovely party, Ms. Foster,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly placid. “A very convincing and, I’m sure, expensive performance. You did not, however, have a legally binding wedding.”

My breath hitches. The memory flashes, vivid and painful. Zayn, standing under an arch of white roses, his dark eyes fixed on me. The way his thumb traced my knuckles as he slid the ring onto my finger. The weight of it, solid and real. It feels heavy on my hand right now.

“The officiant, the license we signed…”

“The officiant was an actor, hired for the occasion. The license was never filed. The document submitted to my office for your grandfather’s records was a fabrication. A high quality one, I’ll admit. But a fabrication nonetheless.” He slides a sheet of paper across the desk. It’s a report from a document examiner. Words like ‘inconsistent ink saturation’ and ‘forged signature block’ swim before my eyes.

“Why?” The question is barely a puff of air. “Why would he do that?”

Mr. Davies clears his throat, a small, bird-like sound. “That is a question for Mr. Maddox. However, my due diligence in executing your grandfather’s will has uncovered a potential… impediment.”

He doesn’t look at me as he says it. He pulls another file from his briefcase, this one a different color. Manila, not grey. He opens it with the same dispassionate care.

“It appears the reason Mr. Maddox could not legally marry you,” he continues, “is because he was already married.”

The air in the room turns to glass, sharp and fragile. I feel like if I move, it will shatter and slice me to ribbons. My own heartbeat is a frantic drum against my ribs.

“What did you just say?”

“Zayn Maddox was wed ten years ago in a civil ceremony in Lake Como, Italy.” He pushes another document toward me. This one is a photocopy, slightly grainy, but the names are perfectly clear. Zayn Alistair Maddox. Whitney Isabelle Kuznetsov.

Whitney. The name is a ghost story Zayn told me once, long ago. His first love, the one who broke his heart when her family moved back to Russia. ‘Ancient history,’ he’d called her, with a wave of his hand and a kiss to my forehead that was meant to erase her completely. It seems she was never history at all. She was the truth. And I was the lie.

“The marriage was never legally dissolved,” Mr. Davies states, as if reporting the weather. “Mr. Maddox and Ms. Kuznetsov are, in the eyes of the law, still husband and wife.”

Eight years. Eight years of waking up next to him, of cooking him breakfast, of holding him when the nightmares of his business came for him in the dark. Eight years of building a life I thought was ours. A lie. A performance. My entire adult life has been a sham.

I feel a wave of nausea so intense I have to grip the arms of my chair. My other hand goes instinctively to my stomach, a flat, protective gesture over the life I’m carrying. Their lives.

“So the inheritance…” My voice cracks. My grandfather’s fortune. We’d talked about it, Zayn and I. The charitable foundation we would start, the good we would do. Another fantasy.

“This is where the situation becomes… unique,” Mr. Davies says, finally looking at me. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Pity? Or perhaps just professional interest. “Your grandfather’s will is quite specific. His estate, valued at approximately three hundred and forty-seven million dollars, was to be placed in a trust for the benefit of you and your legal spouse, to be managed jointly.”

He pauses, letting the words hang in the silent, air-conditioned room.

“However, in the event that you were unmarried at the time of his passing, the will stipulates that the entirety of the estate, liquid assets, properties, and controlling shares in all Foster Legacy Group holdings, pass directly to you. Solely. Unconditionally.”

I stare at him. The number is astronomical, meaningless. It’s confetti in a hurricane. What good is a mountain of gold when the ground beneath your feet has vanished?

“So I…”

“You, Ms. Foster, are now one of the wealthiest women in this city. The inheritance is entirely yours. Mr. Maddox has no legal claim to any of it. Not a single dollar.”

The irony is a physical blow. The man I loved, the man I built a life with, the father of my unborn children, is a fraud. And his elaborate, cruel deception has just made me richer than I could ever imagine. My grandfather, even from the grave, was protecting me.

Mr. Davies starts talking again, his voice fading into a low hum. Words like ‘portfolios,’ ‘probate,’ and ‘transfer of assets’ float by. I don’t hear them. All I can hear is the frantic beating of my own heart, and a new sound rising beneath it. The primal scream of a mother protecting her young.

My children. Our children. But they’re not his to claim, are they? Not in any way that matters. They will be born into a lie, their father a ghost married to another woman. They will carry my name. Foster. Not Maddox. They will never be pawns in his dangerous world. He will never have a right to them.

The money. It was just noise a moment ago. Now, it’s a weapon. It’s a shield. It’s a getaway car fueled and waiting.

I can disappear. I can take my children and build a fortress around them where the name Zayn Maddox is never spoken. I can vanish so completely he’ll wonder if I was ever real.

The grief is still there, a gaping wound in my chest. But something else is crystallizing from the pain. Something hard and cold. Resolve.

“Mr. Davies,” I say, cutting through his monologue. My voice is different now. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t break. It’s as cold and clear as his.

He stops, surprised, and peers at me over his glasses.

“I want you to begin the process immediately,” I say. “Secure everything. Every account, every property, every stock. Transfer it all into new accounts under my name. My name only.”

“Of course, Ms. Foster. We can begin drawing up the paperwork…”

“Not paperwork,” I interrupt. “Action. I want you to freeze any joint credit lines, revoke any access Zayn Maddox has to any funds or properties connected to my grandfather’s estate. I want it done by the end of the day.”

His eyebrows lift. “That’s a very… aggressive timeline.”

“Is it?” I meet his gaze, and for the first time, he looks away. “You told me it’s all mine. I want to ensure it stays that way. I want him cut off completely. Can you do that, or do I need to find a lawyer who can?”

This is the dopamine tease. A hint of the woman my grandfather raised me to be, not the wife Zayn Maddox thought he could fool.

A slow smile touches the corner of Mr. Davies’s thin mouth. “I can assure you, Ms. Foster. I am precisely the lawyer for the job. It will be done.”

“Good.” I stand up, my movements steady and deliberate. I smooth down my dress, the motion calming. I am in control. For the first time all day, I am in control. I pick up my purse, the weight of my secret, my future, nestled inside.

I walk toward the door without a backward glance. My heels click against the marble floor, a steady, rhythmic beat. A war drum.

My marriage is a lie. My love was a lie. My life was a lie.

But my children are real. And so is my money.

He wanted a performance. I’ll give him one he’ll never forget.