Chapter 3 - The Long Road to Boston
The cross-country bus trip was a four-day blur of flickering highway lights, cheap gas station sandwiches, and endless asphalt.
While the bus rumbled through Nevada, Utah, Nebraska, and Illinois, I spent every waking hour researching Arthur Montgomery.
He was sixty-two years old. His wife, Eleanor, had passed away six years ago from cancer. His three adult children—Julian, Victoria, and Charles—all held high-ranking positions within Montgomery Global Enterprises. From the outside, they looked like royalty: polished, untouchable, and incredibly wealthy.
I wondered if Arthur even knew I existed.
Did he order the non-disclosure agreement himself? Did he pay my mother millions just to ensure I never showed up on his doorstep? Or was the NDA orchestrated by his lawyers, his late wife, or his older children to protect their inheritance?
Every time the bus made a rest stop, I checked my phone. My mother had sent two text messages:
Mom (2:15 PM): "Hope you arrived safely in Florida. Make sure to lock the doors at night." Mom (8:40 PM): "Aunt Linda said you didn't board the flight. Brinley, answer your phone right now. What are you doing?"
I didn't reply. I turned off my location tracking, switched my phone to airplane mode, and focused on the road ahead.
On the fourth morning, the bus rolled into Boston South Station.
The air in Massachusetts was cold and crisp, carrying the salty tang of the Atlantic Ocean. I stepped off the bus with my backpack slung over one shoulder, exhausted, dirty, and running on four hours of broken sleep, but my resolve had never been stronger.
I walked to a public restroom, washed my face, brushed my hair into a neat ponytail, and changed into the clean blazer I had brought in my bag.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I had my mother's sharp jawline, but my eyes—deep grey, almost silver—were entirely unfamiliar. In the news photos I had saved on my phone, Arthur Montgomery had the exact same grey eyes.
"It's now or never," I whispered to myself.
I took the subway line up to the financial district, stopping in front of a soaring tower of glass and steel: The Montgomery Tower.
The main lobby was breathtaking. Marble floors, forty-foot ceilings, security turnstiles, and guards in sharp navy uniforms. Executives in designer suits swept past me, holding leather portfolios and takeout coffees.
I walked straight toward the front desk.
A polished receptionist with a gold nametag reading Clarissa looked up, offering a professional, patronizing smile. "Good morning. How can I help you today?"
"I'm here to see Arthur Montgomery," I said clearly.
Clarissa chuckled softly. "Mr. Montgomery's office is on the top floor, dear. He doesn't take unscheduled visitors. Do you have an appointment with his executive assistant?"
"No," I replied, pulling the folded copy of my birth certificate out of my coat pocket and placing it flat on her desk. "I don't have an appointment. But tell him Brinley Vance is downstairs. Tell him his daughter is here."
Clarissa’s smile froze.
She stared at me, then looked down at the birth certificate. Her eyes widened as she read the words Arthur Fielding Montgomery listed under the paternal field.
"Just a moment," Clarissa said, her voice dropping all corporate friendliness. She reached for her desk phone, dialed an internal extension, and spoke in low, hushed tones.
"Yes... security? No, wait, call Ms. Moore on the executive level... There’s a teenager downstairs claiming to be Mr. Montgomery's daughter... She has legal documents."
Two minutes later, an elevator door slid open across the lobby.
A tall, sharp woman in her late forties stepped out, wearing a charcoal pantsuit and carrying a digital tablet. She scanned the lobby with calm, terrifying precision until her eyes locked on me.
It was Camila Moore—the woman who had sent the non-disclosure email to my mother.
She walked across the marble floor, her high heels clicking loudly against the stone. She stopped three feet away from me, her dark eyes evaluating my face, my clothes, and the birth certificate on the desk.
"Brinley Vance," Camila said smoothly. "I recognized your face immediately. You look remarkably like your father."
"Is he here?" I demanded, my heart pounding against my ribs.
May you like
Camila didn't blink. "Mr. Montgomery is currently in a board meeting. You need to come with me right now, before you create a scene that neither of us wants."
She gestured toward a private elevator bank. I tightened my grip on my backpack, stood tall, and followed her inside.
