“He didn’t want the money,” Walter said softly. “He only wanted to teach. To raise you. But your father was the photographer who created the Horizon Collection. A brand that now earns millions.”
I blinked hard. “No, that can’t be right. I grew up with secondhand clothes. He worked overtime every week.”
“Because he signed the rights away,” Walter said. “To hide you from a controlling grandmother who would’ve used the money to take you away from him.”
My breath caught.
“He protected you,” Walter continued. “And before he died, he transferred all remaining royalties—the ones coming from Europe—to a trust under your name. It’s been growing for seventeen years.”
My voice trembled. “How… much?”
Walter opened a laptop and turned the screen toward me.
$18,700,000
The world tilted.
My father—the man who never bought a new coat—had quietly built a fortune and shielded it for me.
But the shock wasn’t over.
“There is something else,” Walter said. “Three months ago, someone tried to claim the royalties by pretending to be you.”
I closed my eyes.
Jonas.
Of course.
The sudden push to make me sign papers.
His obsession with my old belongings.
The escalating cruelty.