Three Days Later, Brooklyn Apartment, 7:20 AM
Lily stared at her phone screen, refreshing the bank account page for the umpteenth time.
Balance: $8,472,189.33
After taxes, legal fees, financial advisor retainers, a real number sitting in a Goldman Sachs private banking account. Yesterday, she had sat in that office overlooking Central Park, signing countless documents, her fingers trembling with nerves. The private banker was a middle-aged man named James, his smile like a finely calibrated instrument.
"Ms. Thorne, based on your age and asset profile, we recommend a conservative portfolio: 60% bonds, 30% blue-chip stocks, 10% alternative investments. Expected annualized return 4-6%, meaning you'll have roughly $3.5 to $5 million in passive income per year."
Five million dollars a year. The number made Lily dizzy.
"I'd like to clear some debts first." She said, her voice small in the vast conference room. "My father's medical debt, my student loans, and..."
"Of course." James nodded. "Our team will handle all that. Now, regarding asset protection, given your sudden wealth, I strongly advise setting up a family office structure, and consider changing your phone number, address..."
He went on about trusts, offshore accounts, confidentiality agreements. Lily half-listened, only feeling these words were a wall separating her from the world she knew.
Now, in this kitchen where roaches still crawled, she refreshed the page again. The number hadn't changed.
Real. Brutally real.
The doorbell rang.
Lily looked through the peephole and froze. Outside stood her aunt Patricia, wearing a Chanel suit Lily only remembered from Christmas parties, holding a massive fruit basket.
"Lily, darling! I know you don't want to be disturbed, but I'm just... so happy for you!" Patricia's voice pierced the thin door.
Lily opened the door. Patricia immediately hugged her, the perfume scent almost suffocating.
"Look at you, still living in a place like this!" Her aunt glanced around the cramped apartment, a perfectly measured sympathy on her face. "But not anymore, right? I know a lovely apartment on the Upper East Side, only $25 million, pocket change for you—"
"I need time to think, Aunt Patricia." Lily interrupted, her voice colder than she intended.
Patricia's smile stiffened but quickly recovered. "Of course, of course. I just want to help. You know, your father's side... things aren't good. But with this money, we can help him make a comeback! I know some fantastic investment opportunities—"
"Mr. James, my financial advisor, advised me not to make any major investments or expenditures for at least six months." Lily parroted the advisor's words.
"James?" Patricia raised her meticulously groomed eyebrows. "Which James? Listen, dear, those bankers just want your management fees. Family is different. We actually care about you."
We. The word was like a key, opening a box in Lily's memory.
She remembered her twelfth birthday when Patricia gave her a beautiful diary, then "borrowed" a pearl necklace her mother left her the next day, never returned.
She remembered when her father's business first showed trouble, Patricia was the first relative to stop answering calls.
She remembered at the bankruptcy auction, someone online told her Patricia had snapped up several of her mother's watercolor collections at rock-bottom prices.
"Thank you for your concern, Aunt." Lily said, her voice calm. "But I have a lot to handle right now. I'll... be in touch."
She began to close the door. Patricia blocked it with her hand.
"Lily." Her voice changed, turning sharp. "You're only twenty-two. You have no idea how to manage this much money. You'll be surrounded by swindlers. At least let me help—"
"I said I'll handle it." Lily stared into her aunt's eyes. "Now, please leave."
As the door closed, she heard Patricia curse under her breath outside. Footsteps retreated.
Lily leaned against the door, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor.
Her phone vibrated. Unknown number.
"Is this Ms. Lily Thorne? I'm a reporter from the New York Post, we'd like to interview you about your win—"
She hung up.
Another text: "Dear, I'm Irene, your mother's old bridge partner, I'd like to invite you to—"
Delete.
Another: "Cousin Lily! I'm your distant cousin Steven, we met at the family reunion in 2015—"
Power off.
Silence. Only the hum of the refrigerator and distant street traffic.
Lily hugged her knees, burying her face in her arms. Tears flowed silently, not from sadness, but from an emotion she couldn't name—something like loneliness, or the suffocation of being pulled in countless directions.
$85 million.
It was supposed to be a key, opening all locked doors.
Why did it feel more like a cage made of gold?