Hypergeniture Bk. 01 Pt. 00

Our follower had a bit of a baby-face. Still, I guessed she must've been my age, if not a bit older. She was about my height, making her tall, even though she wore flat shoes and walked with a bit of a slouch. Her body was slim, shoulders athletic, and the slouch seemed to be the product of minor discomfort rather than poor posture. Like the other staff, she wore a sensible work outfit, but hers was devoid of any flourish. Similarly, her dark brown hair was tidy yet unremarkable. I picked up on all that but couldn't put the picture together in my head.

You see, she looked like someone I'd seen a lot of in the past... Then, as we reached the boardroom, my attention snapped from my strange hanger-on and back to the reason for my visit. I was guided into the massive top-floor boardroom and left alone to wait for Mr Singh.

Looking out the glass panels lining the walls and over the Thames, I breathed for what felt like the first time since entering the building. My firm's offices in Toronto were grand but this was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It was clear that the building was intentionally beautiful. Still, it was sterile in the way office buildings are, no matter how ornate the design or gifted the designer.

I was early, and it seemed the same was true for Mr Singh. The bald and broad-shouldered legal powerhouse swooped into the room, shook my hand, and circled the table to take a seat across from me. "Mr Orwell! I am so happy we could meet without any delay."

"Well, sir, I got such a shock when I received your email—"

"Really?" my boss grinned. "Am I so disconnected from the team that an email from me causes shock?"

"No... Sir... I..."

Again, Mr Singh laughed me to silence. This time it was disarming and an almost parental smile followed. "Don't worry, young man. You aren't in trouble. Unless you think money is more trouble than it's worth, which I hope you don't."

I raised an eyebrow. "Sorry? I'm genuinely lost, sir."

"How old was your mother when she had you?"

"Isn't that a rather personal question?"

Mr Singh leaned forward. "Fair. Would you say she was too young, though?"

"Too young to have a child? Yes, sir. She was far too young for that..."

"Your father passed?"

"I... Ehm... Look... You are my boss, and I want to keep my job, but how are these appropriate questions?"

At the sound of my resistance, Mr Singh shrugged and that parental smile returned to his face. "Forgive the personal questions, Mr Orwell. I am simply trying to find an easy avenue into one of the most absurd conversations I'll ever have. Your mother and father undoubtedly love you very much. Nothing could ever bring that into question."

I agreed, though every so often, I had my doubts.

Singh continued, "However, you can also agree that they were ill-prepared to have a child when your mother fell pregnant with you. Your father was older, working as a chauffeur... Working for Elizabeth Wharry."

Shaking my head, I searched my mind for any prior knowledge of Dad's old jobs. "Our client? I didn't know he worked for Miss Wharry..."

"You also don't know she wanted to adopt you. In fact, the matter had been settled: you would've been her son if she hadn't gotten cold feet. I doubt your parents would have told you and I don't want you to hold their silence about it against them. One day you'll have—"

"Sorry? Sir... I don't... I don't understand."

"Elizabeth regretted her decision to abandon the adoption," Singh explained. "She made certain resources available for your education to compensate. In her own way, she mothered you from afar."

Shocked, I hooked on the old law boss's remarks and raised a hand to interrupt, "No. That's not motherhood, sir. You can't call that motherhood! What the fuck are you on about?!"

I was shocked at my tone, but this was ludicrous. It felt like I was being made fun of — like this was some idiotic prank.

By pushing back against my boss, I'd crossed a line that I never thought I would. I would beg and grovel to keep a good job. Yes, I didn't mind looking like a sycophant to care for my family. Luckily though, Singh didn't seem upset at my mild impertinence. If anything, the man was impressed.

Undisturbed, he continued. "You are the closest thing Elizabeth ever had to a child, which is reflected in her last will and testament."

"What do you mean?" I asked almost inaudibly. My eyes narrowed as I tried to make sense of the information. My world wasn't shattered; my beliefs weren't shaken. Still, I felt my hands tremble as certain aspects of my life suddenly made sense. I clenched my fists to hide my shock and tried to keep all my thoughts in their box.

I wanted to hear more before jumping to any conclusions.

"Of course, there are large charitable bequests," Mr Singh explained, lowering his voice to meet my volume. "However, the bulk of the assets have been left to you."

"What?"

The law czar cleared his throat, "We're still tying a few things up, but it comes out to about 53-billion dollars. You can do the conversions in your head. It puts you firmly in the top 10 of the rich list and easily makes you the richest person under 30."

Mr Singh sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. We simply watched each other, searching for something but not knowing what. I didn't have words or breath, and even sight seemed to abandon me for a moment. My ears shut, and the only thing I could 'feel' was the lump in my throat.

My boss wiped a hand over his brow and rested it against his temple, then spoke with a fatherly calm. "Don't fight this. People will happily tell you they'd reject such luck out of fear it might change them—"

"No! I mean... No, sir. I won't fight it. Not when it can solve so many problems for my family."

Singh seemed relieved at my easy acceptance, like I was part of some bigger plan that necessitated it. He didn't waste much time on technicalities, reminding me that I was an attorney with some experience in these matters and that I. should be capable of dealing with what was to come.

"The Estate is paying for you to retain Elizabeth's security detail and stay in her London townhouse. Once things are complete, you'll take over the expenses, which aren't insubstantial... You'll need to keep a grasp of things."

"I can do that."

"And, you need to know that things may not always be as they seem."

"Huh?" I quizzed, dumbly.

Singh leaned forward and became deeply — disturbingly — earnest for a moment. "The amount of money you're about to have... People will kill for it, and people will lie for it. You will be robbed more than once and scammed time and time again. Fortune won't make you immune to life's ups and downs.

"I'm not overly rich, Mr Orwell. Yes, I've been successful, but you will soon have one-hundred times the money I've earned over a lifetime. I'd say I'll be your friend and your mentor, but that would be a promise I can't keep. Your wealth and status will be far above anything I'm qualified to counsel you on... With that said, I do hope you'll retain our firm."

Singh's last quip was meant to be light-hearted, but I was too shocked to smile. I nodded as if I understood.

How could I know what I was letting myself in for? Security, skyscrapers, London townhouses, billions... It all seemed surreal, yet I found myself unable to focus on the potential burdens.

All I saw was an opportunity. Opportunity for my sisters, their future, and their happiness.

Apparently, there was a car waiting for me in the underground parking. The secretary who'd followed us around as I arrived seemed to have been waiting outside. She joined again, and I wondered if she would be assisting me with some of the admin. Yet, even in the tightly packed elevator, we didn't speak a word to each other.

As we approached the car, a young courier who seemed to be in a rush came storming past. When he was about a foot ahead of me, I felt a firm hand grasp and pull me out of his way. Then, as the Maybach came in sight, the same hand let go and moved to open the door for me.

Elizabeth's security detail.

So, the secretary wasn't a secretary after all.

"Good day, sir," the driver greeted. She spoke with an American accent that I recognised from movies about New York and some of the students in my boarding schools. "I'm Isabelle Ignacio, and I'll be taking you wherever you need to go."

The bodyguard had taken her seat next to Isabelle but didn't introduce herself. She seemed to have a lot on her mind, and it was only when we got moving that she turned around to face me.

"My name is Alicia... Alicia Le Roux... Sir."

Alicia's accent sounded Dutch but had been heavily influenced by her time in the UK. She was distracted and I wondered whether that was a good quality in someone supposed to be looking out for me. Then, I remembered how she'd guided me into the car and watched in the rearview mirror as her dusky green — almost brown — eyes observed the world. She was hyper-alert, scanning for the slightest disturbances in the world around us.

"My name is Oliver," I offered. "May I ask where we're going?"

Isabelle seemed to wait for Alicia to answer. Yes, Alicia was the boss between the two, but she didn't seem to pick up the question.

"We're heading straight to the townhouse, boss," Isabelle explained. "We don't need to if there's someplace you'd rather be."

"No. I suppose it would be good to head... Home?"

"Yes, sir, home..."