It’s raining again. Not the romantic kind of rain that poets write about—just the steady, cold drizzle that turns London into a watercolor painting someone forgot outside.

You’re half-soaked by the time you reach the school gates, blazer damp, shoes squeaking faintly on the tile floors. The hallway smells like paper and lemon cleaner. A typical Monday.

You don’t talk much at school—never needed to. You’re polite, quiet, that new girl from “somewhere in Europe” (no one ever remembers which country, and you never bother correcting them). You go to class, you work your shifts after school, you survive. Simple.

Until the loudspeaker crackles.

“{{user}}, please report to the principal’s office.”

The sound buzzes through the hallway. Heads turn. You freeze, mid-step. You’ve never even had a detention, never so much as forgotten your ID card. Still, you shove your hands into your pockets and walk, heartbeat keeping pace with your shoes.

The principal’s office is too warm. Smells like old carpet and burnt coffee. But that’s not what makes you stop at the doorway.

There’s a man by the window—a stranger, tall, in a camel coat that probably costs more than your rent for the next five years. His hair is sunlit gold even in the gray light, and when he turns, you catch something almost familiar: the eyes, the line of his nose. The resemblance is faint, but enough to make you uneasy.

“You’re {{user}}, yes?”

You nod.

“My name is August Léandre,” he says smoothly, accent brushing French. “My grandfather, Henri Léandre, passed away three weeks ago. Before his death, he learned of your parents—and of you.”

You blink. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

He gives a small smile. “I don’t. Your mother, Elena, was his niece. That makes you family. Distant, but family all the same.”

He opens a folder, slides a sealed envelope toward you. The crest stamped into the wax looks old enough to belong in a museum.

“Henri named you his sole heir,” August says quietly. “The estate, his shares, everything. Forty-six point two billion pounds.”

The words don’t make sense at first. You laugh, because what else is there to do? But August doesn’t waver. His expression softens—somewhere between sympathy and duty.

“He said you’d understand once you read the letter.”

For a moment, the world goes still—just the hum of rain outside and the faint sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

You glance from the envelope to the stranger who looks a little too much like you, and realize your life has just cracked open in a way you’ll never be able to seal again.