Chapter 4: Crown of Thorns
The courtroom was colder than I expected.
Rows of press, shareholders, and family lawyers filled the gallery like a silent jury of strangers. A large banner behind the bench read:
> GRANT CORPORATION: SHAREHOLDER TRANSITION HEARING
in gold script.
This wasn't just a court proceeding.
This was a coronation.
And I was walking toward the throne they'd buried me under for eighteen years.
Naomi stood beside me, adjusting the lapel of my deep navy blazer. Her fingers were steady — unlike my pulse.
"Remember," she whispered, her voice low and sharp. "You don't flinch. You don't bow. You are a Grant."
I nodded, though my palms were damp with sweat beneath the blazer sleeves.
Lucian entered moments later, dressed in a sharp black suit, his stride powerful, his presence undeniable. Conversations stilled, reporters straightened, the air thickened.
He walked to me without hesitation and reached for my hand.
His grip was warm, firm.
"You ready?" he murmured.
I didn't blink. "I was born ready. I just forgot for a while."
---
"Court is now in session," the magistrate called out, his voice carrying over the hum of whispers and shifting seats. "The matter of Ava Grant's legal status and inheritance will now be formally reviewed."
Murmurs rippled through the courtroom.
Even after three days of viral headlines, countless rumors, and internet explosions, the people in this room still didn't believe it.
To them, I was still a stranger.
A well-dressed imposter.
A pawn placed beside Lucian Grant as part of some shadowed game.
But I wasn't here to explain myself.
I was here to burn their delusions.
The judge adjusted his glasses and continued reading.
"Based on verified evidence submitted by Grant Corporation — including hospital birth records, DNA results, legal affidavits, and multiple witness testimonies — this court recognizes Ava Grant as the sole biological daughter of the late Sophia Grant, and the direct heir to the Grant family's holdings, including corporate interests and trust assets."
A collective gasp moved through the gallery like a ripple of broken illusions.
Phone cameras clicked.
One lawyer dropped his pen.
The judge looked directly at me.
"Effective immediately, Ava Grant will assume all rights and privileges afforded to her as successor to the Grant family estate and board seat."
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even breathe.
Until Lucian leaned close, just enough for me to hear the words that grounded me like lightning hitting soil:
"Claim your throne."
---
I rose.
Each step I took echoed against the marble like a declaration.
I turned to face the gallery — and found them immediately.
The Dawsons.
Harold and Evelyn sat in tailored suits, their faces carefully blank but their white-knuckled hands gave them away. They weren't in control anymore.
And Lily.
Sitting between them like a wounded dove.
Her dress was soft pink. Her eyes glossy. Her hands curled tightly around a pearl-handled clutch like she could squeeze herself back into power if she just held on hard enough.
And Daniel…
His face was pale, his lips pressed together like he was chewing the taste of his own regret.
I didn't say a word.
But I smiled.
Just enough for them to feel it sting.
And then I turned away — because I had something they would never have again.
Inheritance earned, not stolen.
---
When the hearing ended, the building exploded with energy.
The second I stepped outside the chamber, I was hit by a wall of camera flashes and microphones.
"Miss Grant! How does it feel to be recognized officially?"
"Is it true you were hidden by the Dawson family?"
"What's your comment on Lily Dawson's latest interview calling this 'a misunderstanding?'"
Lucian looked at me, silent, waiting.
I took one step forward and raised my voice just enough for every camera to hear.
"It feels like justice."
Click.
"I was hidden. Lied to. Betrayed." My voice was clear. "But I'm not here to talk about the past."
I let that silence ring before I finished:
"I'm here to build the future."
More flashes.
"Do you have a message for the Dawsons?" someone shouted.
I turned toward the cameras.
"They chose their truth," I said. "I'm just living mine."
---
Later that evening, Lucian drove us to the rooftop of the Grant Tower.
It wasn't a press event. No paparazzi. No headlines.
Just us.
Soft string lights hung above a sleek wooden deck. A table set for two. The skyline shimmering below us like a reflection of the stars.
Lucian poured me a glass of wine.
"You didn't have to do this," I said as he handed it to me. "The rooftop. The quiet. The… humanity."
He looked at me and said simply, "You didn't have to become the Ava Grant I needed either. But you did."
I sipped the wine and looked out at the horizon.
The world was beneath my feet, but the ghosts still sat beside me.
"I never realized how easy it is to feel powerful," I whispered, "when everyone's finally looking at you like you matter."
Lucian didn't interrupt.
Then, quietly, he said:
"People like us don't get handed crowns. We steal them. Bleed for them. And when we wear them, they don't sit easy. They cut. They burn. But we wear them anyway."
I turned toward him.
"And you think I can bear that weight?"
He looked directly into me.
"I think you already are."
---
We sat in silence for a long time.
But Lucian Grant's silence was never empty.
It always had shape. Substance. Gravity.
Finally, he asked, "Do you hate them?"
He didn't say who.
He didn't need to.
"I thought I did," I said slowly. "I wanted to. But hate is messy. It consumes. It claws you into becoming them."
Lucian waited.
I looked back toward the skyline.
"But now? I just want them to see me."
Lucian nodded.
"That's worse than hate," he said. "That's power."
And he was right.
Because it did feel good.
Too good.
And I hated that part of myself — the part that enjoyed rising because they were falling.
---
When I returned to my suite that night, Naomi was waiting.
She looked tense.
"This came by courier," she said, handing me a cream envelope. "No return address. No signature."
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a photo.
A faded snapshot.
Me — maybe five years old — sitting in a garden I didn't recognize. The swing set behind me rusted. A woman sat beside me.
Not Evelyn Dawson.
On the back, in soft, looping cursive:
> "The garden was always your safe place. Come find it again."
There was no name. Just an address written in the same hand.
I froze.
Lucian stepped into the room just as I was reading it again.
"What's wrong?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
I held up the photo.
"I think someone's trying to help me," I said.
"Or lead you into a trap."
I looked at him.
"I need to know which one."
He studied the handwriting, then looked back at me.
"If you go," he said, "you don't go alone."
"I wasn't planning to."
He nodded once.
"Then we go together."
---
[End of Chapter 4: Crown of Thorns]