I’m April, and I’m twenty-six years old. My grandfather’s funeral was supposed to be about honoring his memory, but instead, it turned into the most humiliating day of my life. I watched my family divide up his empire like vultures while I was handed an envelope with a plane ticket.
The reading of Grandpa Robert’s will took place in his lawyer’s mahogany-paneled office downtown. My mother, Linda, sat primly in her black Chanel suit, dabbing her eyes with tissues that hadn’t seen a single tear. My father, David, checked his Rolex repeatedly, already mentally spending his inheritance. My brother, Marcus, lounged in his chair like he owned the place, and my cousin, Jennifer, kept whispering calculations to her husband.
Mr. Morrison, Grandpa’s longtime attorney, cleared his throat and began reading. «To my son, David Thompson, I leave the family shipping business and all associated assets.» Dad’s face lit up like Christmas morning. The business was worth $30 million, easy.
«To my daughter-in-law, Linda Thompson, I bequeath the family estate in Napa Valley, including all furnishings and artwork.» Mom actually smiled for the first time since the funeral. The estate was easily worth $25 million.
«To my grandson, Marcus Thompson, I leave my collection of vintage automobiles and the penthouse apartment in Manhattan.» Marcus pumped his fist under the table. Those cars alone were worth millions.
«To my granddaughter, Jennifer Davis, I leave my yacht, Isabella, and the vacation home in Martha’s Vineyard.» Jennifer squeezed her husband’s hand triumphantly.
Then Mr. Morrison paused and looked directly at me. My heart hammered as everyone turned to stare. This was it. Grandpa had always been closest to me. He’d taught me chess, taken me sailing, and shared stories about building his empire from nothing. Surely, he’d left me something significant.
«To my granddaughter, April Thompson,» Mr. Morrison continued, «I leave this envelope.»
That was it. An envelope. The room erupted in uncomfortable laughter. Mom actually chuckled and patted my knee condescendingly. «Well, honey, I’m sure there’s something meaningful inside. Maybe a nice letter.»
But I could see it in their faces; they thought it was hilarious. Poor April. The granddaughter who’d spent every summer helping Grandpa with his business ventures, who’d listened to his stories about Monaco and Las Vegas, who’d been his chess partner for fifteen years, had been left with an envelope while everyone else got millions.
«Acho que se huave no te amaba tanto assim,» Mom said, barely containing her laughter as she butchered Portuguese trying to sound worldly. «I guess your grandfather didn’t love you that much after all.»
The words hit me like a physical blow. Twenty-six years of family gatherings, of being the responsible one, of helping everyone with their problems, and this was how they saw me. The afterthought. The leftover.
Marcus leaned over, smirking. «Maybe it’s Monopoly money, sis. That’d be about right for your luck.»
I clutched the envelope, my hands trembling slightly. Inside, I could feel something besides paper. It wasn’t thick enough to be a large check, but there was definitely something there besides a letter.
Jennifer piped up from across the room. «Don’t look so sad, April. I’m sure Grandpa left you something appropriate for your station.»
Her tone made it clear what she thought my «station» was. I stood up abruptly, the leather chair creaking behind me. «If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.»
The laughter followed me out of the office and down the hall. I could hear Mom telling someone, «She’s always been dramatic. Robert probably left her a nice little keepsake or some advice about finding a husband.»
In the elevator, alone except for my reflection in the polished steel doors, I finally opened the envelope. Inside was a first-class plane ticket to Monaco, dated for the following week, and a single sentence written in Grandpa’s distinctive handwriting: Trust activated on your 26th birthday, sweetheart. Time to claim what’s always been yours.
But that wasn’t what made my breath catch; it was what else was in the envelope. There was a business card and a bank statement. The card read «Prince Alexandre de Monaco, private secretary» in elegant gold lettering. On the back, in Grandpa’s handwriting, it said: He’s managing your trust.
The bank statement was from Credit Suisse, addressed to the «April R. Thompson Trust.» The balance made me dizzy. Three hundred and forty-seven million dollars. I stared at the numbers, counting the zeros again and again. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the paper.
This had to be a mistake, some kind of clerical error or cruel joke. But the letterhead was real, the account numbers looked legitimate, and Grandpa’s handwriting was unmistakable. When I got back to my apartment that night, I called the bank’s international number listed on the statement. After being transferred three times and providing extensive verification information, a Swiss banker with impeccable English confirmed what I couldn’t believe.
«Yes, Ms. Thompson. Your trust was established when you were sixteen and has been professionally managed for the past decade. Your grandfather was quite specific about the activation date coinciding with your 26th birthday.»
«But I never signed anything to create a trust,» I said.
«Your grandfather established it as the settler,» he replied. «As a minor, your consent wasn’t required. The trust has been generating returns and reinvesting profits from various international business holdings.»
Business holdings. That phrase sent chills down my spine, remembering all those chess games where Grandpa would talk about hypothetical business scenarios, asking my opinion on hotel management, customer service strategies, and market positioning. I’d thought he was just making conversation.
«What kind of business holdings?» I asked.
«I’m not authorized to discuss specifics over the phone, Ms. Thompson. However, Prince Alexandre has been briefed to provide complete details about your assets when you arrive in Monaco.»
After I hung up, I sat in my tiny apartment, staring at the bank statement. The family group text was buzzing with photos of everyone’s new inheritances. Marcus had posted pictures of car magazines, and Jennifer was already browsing Martha’s Vineyard real estate websites. Nobody had even asked what was in my envelope.
The next morning at breakfast with Mom and Dad, I made the mistake of mentioning my plans. «I’m thinking of taking that trip to Monaco,» I said. «The ticket Grandpa left me.»
Dad nearly choked on his coffee. «Monaco? Honey, that’s probably going to cost you thousands in hotels and expenses. You know your teaching salary can’t cover that kind of vacation.»
I thought about the bank statement hidden in my purse. «The ticket is first-class, and it’s paid for,» I replied.
Mom laughed dismissively. «April, sweetie, Monaco is for people like… well, people with real money. You’ll be completely out of place. It’s all casinos and yacht parties and designer everything.»
If only they knew.
«Maybe she could get some good Instagram photos,» Marcus suggested sarcastically. «Show her students what real wealth looks like before she comes back to her little classroom.»
I felt my cheeks burning, but now there was something else beneath the embarrassment: knowledge, power, and the understanding that I wasn’t the poor relation they all thought I was.
«Maybe Grandpa had a reason for sending me there,» I said quietly.
«Oh, honey,» Mom sighed dramatically. «Your grandfather was ninety-three years old. His mind wasn’t what it used to be toward the end.»
But I remembered those conversations differently. Grandpa had been sharp as ever, discussing business deals and investments right up until his final week. When he talked about Monaco and Las Vegas, it had always been with the familiarity of someone who actually knew those places.
That afternoon, I called in sick to work and spent hours researching. Prince Alexandre de Monaco was real, legitimate, and, according to financial publications, managed several billion dollars in international investments for high-net-worth families. I was apparently one of those families now.
The night before my flight, I packed my best dresses and every bit of confidence I could muster. Mom called one last time to try to talk me out of it. «April, you’re making a mistake. You could use that ticket for something practical.»
«The ticket’s non-refundable, Mom.»
«Well then, at least promise me you won’t embarrass yourself. Don’t tell people you’re Robert Thompson’s granddaughter and expect special treatment.»
I hung up without promising anything. As I double-checked my luggage, I caught my reflection in the mirror: twenty-six years old, brown hair, average height—nothing particularly special about me, according to my family. But Grandpa had seen something different. He’d always told me I had his eyes, his instincts for business, his stubborn determination. Tomorrow, I’d find out if he was right.
The first-class cabin of the Air France flight to Monaco was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The flight attendant addressed me as Miss Thompson with genuine warmth, offered me champagne before takeoff, and made sure I had everything I needed for the eleven-hour journey. As we flew over the Atlantic, I tried to process what the bank statement really meant. $347 million wasn’t just money; it was power, security, and freedom. It was the ability to never worry about rent, car payments, or student loans ever again.
At the Nice airport, I expected to catch a taxi to Monaco. Instead, as I wheeled my luggage through customs, I saw a man in a crisp black suit holding a sign with my name. Not just «April» or «Miss Thompson,» but «Miss April Thompson, Beneficiary of Thompson International Trust.»
My legs nearly gave out. The driver was polite but formal, loading my luggage into a pristine black Mercedes. As we drove along the coastal highway toward Monaco, he made conversation in accented English.
«Is this your first visit to the Principality, Miss Thompson?»
«Yes,» I managed. «It’s beautiful.»
«His Serene Highness is looking forward to meeting you. He has been managing your Trust’s Monaco Holdings personally for several years.»
Monaco Holdings. Plural.
Monaco announced itself gradually. First, the famous harbor came into view, packed with yachts that cost more than most people’s houses. Then, the Monte Carlo Casino, its ornate facade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Finally, we climbed winding streets lined with luxury boutiques and cafes.
The palace sat at the top of the hill, but we didn’t go to the main entrance. Instead, the driver guided the Mercedes through a side gate and into a private courtyard I’d seen in magazines but never imagined visiting.
«Miss Thompson,» the driver said as he helped me from the car, «if you would follow me.»
We walked through corridors lined with paintings that belonged in museums. My teaching salary had never prepared me for spaces like this. Everything whispered of old money, real power, and centuries of influence. Finally, we stopped outside an ornate door. The driver knocked twice, then opened it for me.
«Miss Thompson,» he announced, «your appointment.»
I stepped into what could only be described as a private office, though it was larger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the Mediterranean. Behind a massive desk sat a man who looked exactly like his photos: Prince Alexandre de Monaco.
