The Billionaire Heir Called Me a Freeloader-I’d Bankrolled His Family for 600 Years Chapter 09

The next day, I sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new home, reading the report my

assistant had handed me.

“The Whitmore Group has formally filed for bankruptcy and liquidation. The court has frozen

the relevant assets in Nathan’s name. He also faces several business fraud charges.

“If convicted, he could spend several years in prison. Vivian has been taken into police custody

on suspicion of embezzling company funds.”

I nodded.

“Put the land back on the market. I don’t want to keep a place that always reminds me of

them.”

“Of course.”

My assistant paused.

“Richard’s been waiting outside all night. He eventually got down on his knees and stayed

there. He says he just wants to see you one last time.”

I lifted my teacup and blew across the surface.

“No. Tell him my agreement with the Whitmores was only meant to last for the lifetime of that

man from six hundred years ago.

“For centuries after that, I chose to keep supporting them. That’s why they were able to hold

on to their wealth. It’s over now.

“They owe me nothing more, and I have no further obligations to them.”

Three months later, the first snow of early winter began to fall.

I walked along a Manhattan shopping street in a white cashmere coat.

The Whitmore Building had a new owner. All the family emblems had been stripped from its

exterior.

I held a cup of hot milk tea and walked slowly.

As I crossed a pedestrian bridge, I spotted a familiar figure.

Nathan.

He sat huddled by the steps in a thin, old jacket. A canvas bag full of flyers lay beside him.

The business genius who’d once believed he could control the entire company alone now stared blankly at passersby, his beard unkempt.

I’d heard he’d fled his home one night to escape his creditors: Debt collectors operating

outside the law had tracked him down and broken one of his legs.

His leg hadn’t healed properly, and he still walked with a limp. He could only scrape by

handing out flyers on the street.

A cold wind blew. He hunched his shoulders, and when he looked up, he saw me.

He froze. The flyers slipped from his hands and scattered across the steps.

“Ms. Bennett…”

He tried to stand, but his injured leg buckled. He fell back onto the step.

He looked at me with fear instead of contempt, as though he still hoped I’d help him one more

time.

“I was wrong. I know what I did was wrong.”

He braced himself against the steps and edged toward me. Tears and snot ran down his face.

“Please give me another chance. I can barely afford to eat anymore.”

I stood there, looking at him.

His eyebrows and eyes did look a little like Thomas’s.

But that boy had remembered who’d given him his starting capital. He’d never mistaken

someone else’s help for proof of his own genius.

Nathan had remembered none of it.

I took a coin from my pocket.

It landed on the step in front of him with a soft clink.

“When I gave your ancestor a piece of bread, he knelt and bowed his head to me three times. This coin is the last thing you’ll ever get from me.”

I glanced at his outstretched hand.

“No need to kneel. And don’t come any closer. I don’t want my coat getting dirty.”

I turned and walked down the steps.

I heard him sobbing uncontrollably behind me.

The snow fell harder.

A black Maybach was already waiting at the corner.

The car door opened. A young man in a faded denim jacket stood beside it.

He met my eyes openly, his chin slightly raised. He wore his faded clothes without embarrassment and made no attempt to win my sympathy.

“Ms. Bennett, the car’s ready.”

I looked at him and smiled.

“What’s your name?”

“Ethan Walker.”

“You don’t have any family?”

“No. I grew up in foster care. Your support put me through college. I just graduated.”

I nodded and got into the car.

“Can you drive?”

He looked at me at once, an eager smile spreading across his face.

“Yes,”

“Good.”

I settled back into the leather seat and closed my eyes.

“Then from now on, you’ll drive my carriage.”

I still had so much time.

Six hundred years was only a brief stretch of my life.

The Whitmores were finished.

And I would live on.