The Billionaire's Secret Heiress

The familiar scent of aging paper and cheap coffee at Page & Co. was a constant in my precarious life. Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents an hour was a tightrope walk.

At twenty-five, my life was a careful equation: $12.75per hour plus tips minus $200 per month on student loan payment, minus $153.41 on insulin copay equals just enough to survive. My hands trembled as i arranged a display of self-help books, their titles mocking me; -Lean In , Girl, Stop Apologizing , The Secret . If only she could manifest her way out of this.

"Ellie, can you give me a hand with this shipment?" Marco called, his voice echoing from the front of the bookstore.

"Sure," I replied, forcing a smile as I approached the towering boxes near the entrance.

"More self-help gurus promising untold riches?" he chuckled, wrestling a particularly heavy carton onto a trolley. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Nah, this looks like the summer romance wave. Lots of beach scenes on the covers. Prepare for inquiries about 'something light and fluffy'."

"Light and fluffy," I muttered, grabbing a smaller box labeled 'Staff Picks'. "Maybe I should write one. Title it 'How to Manifest Rent Money While Living on Instant Noodles'."

Marco grinned, slicing open his carton with a practiced hand. "I'd buy it. Seriously though, you okay? You seem a bit... elsewhere today."

I offered a weak smile. "Just the usual. Calculating the exact number of paperback sales needed to justify buying brand-name pasta." It was easier to deflect with humor than explain the constant gnawing fear of my dwindling finances.

"Tell me about it," Marco sighed, though I knew his financial woes involved saving for a new gaming console, not life-saving medication. Still, the attempt at solidarity was something. "Hey, Mrs. Henderson just called, by the way. Wants to know if her special order of 'Finding Your Inner Zen Warrior' came in."

I suppressed a groan. Mrs. Henderson, our most persistent and spiritually inquisitive customer, was convinced enlightenment could be purchased in hardcover. "Did it?"

"Yep. It's in this box somewhere, probably radiating calming energy." Marco pointed to a stack of unopened cartons.

"Great. I'll go hunt the Zen Warrior," I said, hoisting my own box. I retreated towards the back, needing a moment away from the shop floor's forced pleasantries. The narrow corridor leading to the cramped breakroom smelled faintly of stale microwave popcorn. I dropped the box onto the small, sticky table, noticing a small pile of mail Marco must have brought in earlier.

Mostly junk – flyers, catalogues addressed to 'Current Resident', bills... My stomach gave a familiar clench. Were any of them mine? Please, not another unexpected medical charge. I pushed the box aside and mechanically sorted through the envelopes. Bill, junk, flyer, bill... and then, one stopped me.

It was different. Cream-colored, heavy cardstock. My name and the bookstore's address typed with an unnerving formality: Ms. Eleanor Hayes, c/o Page & Co. Bookstore, 14 Chapman Street, New york city. No return address, just an embossed logo in the top left corner I didn't recognize – a stylized 'W' intertwined with something that looked like a circuitry pattern.

"Curious," I murmured to myself.

It felt official, important even. Definitely not a bill collector; they usually favored flimsy paper and aggressive red lettering. Maybe a jury summons? Or some bizarre alumni donation request? I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It was properly sealed.

Using my thumbnail, I slit the envelope carefully along the top edge. Inside, a single sheet of matching heavy paper, folded in thirds. The same enigmatic logo sat at the top. I unfolded it, my eyes scanning the typed lines.

WHITMORE INDUSTRIES, Office of the General Counsel, March 7, 2018. Dear Ms. Hayes, This correspondence concerns a matter of significant personal and legal importance. Following extensive investigation and conclusive genetic testing protocols initiated pursuant to inquiries regarding the estate of the late Charles Whitmore, we can confirm a verified biological familial relation...

The words seemed to swim before my eyes. "Genetic testing?" I whispered, the sound barely audible in the quiet breakroom. Charles Whitmore? The name snagged in my brain, vaguely familiar but utterly disconnected from my reality. Whitmore... wasn't that the tech guy? The one from the magazines years ago? My mother's voice echoed dimly in my

memory – Your father was nobody, Eleanor. A ghost. Gone before you arrived.

Never a name, never a detail beyond 'deadbeat'. My heart started a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a panicked bird trapped in a cage. "Biological relation?" I muttered, shaking my head. "It made no sense." This had to be a mistake. Some elaborate prank, or maybe the letter was meant for someone else entirely?

But my name, my workplace address... it was all chillingly correct. My eyes dropped back to the page, drawn by a terrible, magnetic pull, needing to see the rest, needing to understand what cosmic error had landed this impossible piece of paper in my trembling hands. ...biological familial relation to the late Charles Whitmore...