Securing the Greek's Legacy

She should pity him, Lyn thought, but she could not.

She could only fear him.

But fear was no use to her now. It hadn’t been when Lindy had died. It hadn’t been when the social workers had sought to take Georgy for adoption. It hadn’t been when Anatole Telonidis had turned up, dropping his bombshell into her life about Georgy’s dead father and the vast fortune he would inherit one day from his dying great-grandfather—the fortune Anatole was now safeguarding for Georgy by agreeing to what his grandfather demanded: shedding the bride-to-be he did not want...

Had never wanted.

It was like a spear in her side, hearing those words in her head—a spear that pierced her to her very core! Her vision flickered and she felt her heart slamming in her chest, her lungs bereft of oxygen. She gasped to breathe.

Timon was speaking again, vituperation in his voice. ‘So you see there is nothing here for you now. Nothing! All there is for you to do is pack your bags and go! Take yourself off!’ His dark eyes were filled with loathing. ‘Your lies have come to nothing! And nothing is all that you deserve! To get rid of you as fast as I can do so I will hand you this, to speed you on your way!’

He thrust yet one more piece of paper at her—a small one this time—the size of a cheque.

‘Take it!’ he rasped.

Lyn stared at it blindly, frozen. She couldn’t think, couldn’t function—could only feel. Feel blow after blow landing upon her. Hammering her with pain. But she must not feel pain. Must not allow herself to do so. Later she would feel it, but not now. Now, at this moment, pain was unimportant. Only her next words were important.

To buy time.

Time to think, to work out what she must do—whatever it took—to keep Georgy safe with her.

She took a breath, tortured and ragged, forced her features to become uncontorted. Forced herself to think, to do something—anything other than just stand there while she reeled with what was happening.

She lifted her head. Stared straight at Timon. She should pity him—old and dying as he was, with his beloved grandson Marcos dead and buried so short a time ago. But she could not—not now. All she could do was what she was forcing herself to do now. To reach her hand out jerkily, as if it were being forced by an alien power, and take the cheque he offered.

* * *

She was at the beach house, staring at her mobile on which sat an unread text from Anatole, which had arrived while she was out having her life smashed to pieces. Beside the laptop on the dining room table were the documents Timon had thrust upon her and her Greek dictionary open beside them. Her frail and desperate hope that the translation he had given her was a lie had died. As she had slowly, painfully forced herself to read the original version, with Anatole’s signature on it, word by damning word her last hope had withered to nothing

Anatole had done exactly what Timon had told her he had done. He had taken control of the Petranakos Corporation with full powers, just as he had always aimed to do.

Lyn’s insides hollowed with pain. And he had done what he had always intended to do with her too. Always—right from the start! It was obvious now—hideously, crucifyingly obvious!

Not marry me—

A choking breathlessness filled her. The air was sucked from her lungs, suffocating her with horror.

He was never going to marry me! Never! It was a lie—all along!

And now he did not need to lie any more. There was no need for it. No need for any more pretence, any more charade.

As she sat there staring at the damning evidence the phone rang. For a moment, with a jolt, she thought it was her mobile, then she realised it was the landline. Almost she ignored it, but it went on and on, so with nerveless fingers she picked it up.

It was not Anatole. It was a voice speaking to her in Greek and immediately changing to English when the speaker heard her halting reply. It was an official from the town hall, confirming that the wedding due to take place in four days’ time was indeed, as requested by Kyrios Telonidis via e-mail the previous day, cancelled.

She set down the phone. There was no emotion left within her. None at all. She could not allow any—must not—dared not. She stared back at her mobile, at the unread text from Anatole. She pressed her finger down to open it. To read her fate. She stared as the words entered her brain.

Lyn, I’m cancelling the wedding. I need to talk to you. Urgently. Be there when I phone tonight. A

She went on staring. Numbness filled her the way it had filled her when she’d sat beside Lindy’s dead body, all the life gone out of it. All hope gone. Then slowly she got to her feet, picking up the damning documents, looking around her at the place she had thought so stupidly was going to be her home...

The home she’d share with Anatole.

The man who had just cancelled their wedding.

Not just postponed—but cancelled...

There was a tapping at the French windows leading out to the garden. She looked round. The nanny was there, smiling politely, with Georgy in his buggy. The nanny, Lyn now realised bleakly, Timon had hired to take her place.

How she got rid of her Lyn didn’t know, but she did somehow. Somehow, too, she made herself go upstairs, walk into the bedroom she’d shared with Anatole and gaze down blindly at the bed where he’d taken her into his arms so often. She found her vision blurring, her throat burning.

She made herself look away, go to the closet, pick out the largest handbag she possessed. She put into it all the changes of clothes that she could cram in and, far more importantly, her passport, credit card and what little money she possessed. Then she went into Georgy’s room and packed his bag with nappies and two changes of outfit, his favourite toys. Then, still with her vision blurred and her throat burning, she made herself go downstairs again, scoop him up and hug him tight, tight, tight...

With the shawl she had brought downstairs with her she made a makeshift sling and fitted him in the crook of her shoulder, awkwardly hefting the two bags onto her other shoulder. Her shoes were stout walking shoes and she needed them, for when she went outdoors she headed to the boundary of Timon Petranakos’s property, scrambling over the rocky outcrop there precariously with her precious burden and then, on the other side, gaining the track that led up from the seashore to the main road, running east to west about a quarter of a kilometre inland. There, she knew, was a bus stop. From there she could take the bus to the nearby seaside town and then pick up a tram. The tram would take her where she so desperately, urgently needed to get to.

Piraeus, the port of Athens. Her gateway to escape...

* * *

It was crowded when she got there—crowded, busy and confusing. But she made herself decipher the notices, found the ferry she wanted—the one that was the safest— and bought a ticket with her precious store of euros. She would not risk a credit card. That could be traced...

She hurried aboard the ferry, head down, Georgy in her arms, trying not to look anxious lest she draw attention to herself. The ferry was bound for Crete. If she could lie low there for a while, and then somehow—anyhow!—get a flight back from Crete to the UK she could lie low again, consult a family lawyer...do something that might stop her losing Georgy.

Will I have any chance now even to be his foster-carer? What will happen now that Anatole isn’t marrying me after all? What happens to the adoption application?

Questions, questions, questions—multiple and terrifying! Timon would make a move to claim Georgy, and surely Anatole would too? She had to get to a lawyer, find out what chance she had herself.

But, however puny her hopes, one thing was for sure—if she stayed here in Greece then the long, powerful arm of the Petranakos dynasty would easily overpower her! Georgy would be ripped from her and she would stand no chance—no chance at all—against what Timon and Anatole could throw at her, with all their wealth and influence behind them.

I have to get back to the UK! At least there I stand a chance, however frail...

Her mind raced on, churning and tumultuous, trying to think, think, think, trying to keep her terror at bay.

Trying to keep at bay something that was even worse than the terror.

It stabbed at her like a knife plunging deep into her.

Pain. Pain such as she had never known before. Pain that savaged her like a wolf with a lamb in its tearing jaws. That made her want to hunch over and rock with the agony of it.

She stumbled forward, gaining the seating area in the bow of the ferry, collapsing on one of the benches in the middle section, settling Georgy on her lap. He was staring about delightedly, fascinated by this new environment. She stared blindly out over the busy, crowded harbour, feeling a jolt as the ferry disengaged from the dock and started its journey. She willed it on faster, though she knew it would take until morning to reach Heraklion in Crete. She tried to think ahead, plan in detail what she would do once she arrived there, but her mind would not focus. The wind picked up as they reached the open sea, buffeting her where she sat exposed, feeling the savage jaws of pain tearing at her.