The Notary Called Early in the Morning — That’s How I Became a Millionaire
The phone rang so suddenly that I almost spilled my cup of instant coffee. Seven in the morning! Who would even think to call this early? An unfamiliar number lit up on the screen.
“Hello,” I croaked, my voice rough after a sleepless night of translations.
“Anna Sergeyevna? Igor Vladimirovich Sokolov, notary. Sorry for the early call, but it’s urgent. We need to meet today.”
I rubbed my eyes. A notary? Did I have problems with my apartment now? Just what I needed.
“What’s this about? I have three lessons and two client meetings today.”
“It’s about an inheritance. I can’t discuss details over the phone. I’ll be expecting you at ten, at the notary’s office on Lenina Street, 15.”
He hung up, and I was left standing there, phone in hand. An inheritance? From whom? My parents passed away five years ago, Grandma Liza three years ago. I didn’t have any other relatives.
“You’re being ridiculous, Anya,” I muttered. “Must be some mistake.”
The next hour I paced the apartment. I absentmindedly checked my email — there was a reminder from my landlord about the rent increase. Wonderful. After being laid off from the language school, I could barely cover my current rent.
I opened the fridge. A pack of cottage cheese, half a loaf of bread, and a jar of pickles. A royal breakfast for a future heiress!
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what am I thinking?” I slammed the door shut. “This must be some scam.”
By 9:30, I was already standing at the notary’s door. The tiny office, with peeling walls, didn’t inspire confidence.
“Anna Sergeyevna?” An elderly man in an old-fashioned suit rose from behind the desk. “Come in, have a seat.”
I sat down, clutching my bag tightly.
“So what inheritance are we talking about? I have no other relatives.”
Sokolov took out a folder of documents.
“Did you know Margarita Petrovna Savelieva?”
I frowned. The name rang a faint bell.
“I think Grandma mentioned her… Grandfather’s sister? She moved abroad ages ago.”
“Yes. Margarita Petrovna relocated to Switzerland in the seventies. She passed away in Zurich two weeks ago.”
“And what does that have to do with me? We never even spoke.”
Sokolov removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth.
“The fact is, you are listed as the sole heir to all her assets.”
I laughed — loud and nervous.
“You’re joking, right? Some distant relative I never even met left me an inheritance? Sounds like a scam.”
“I assure you, it’s no joke,” he said, handing me papers. “Here’s the international death certificate, notarized. And here’s a copy of the will.”
I skimmed the lines and felt the room sway.
“Four and a half million euros? A villa in Italy? Company shares? This must be a mistake.”
“No mistake. Margarita Petrovna founded a chain of high-end boutiques. Her fortune is estimated at about six million euros.”
“But why me?” I gripped the armrests.
Sokolov produced a sealed envelope.
“She left you a letter. Perhaps it will explain.”
My hands trembled as I opened it. The handwriting was small and neat.
*“Anya!
You don’t know me, and I never met you. But after your grandfather Petya (my brother) passed, I asked Zina Kruglova (remember her?) to occasionally tell me about your family. That’s how I learned about your school achievements, your studies, your mom and dad. God, how sorry I was that they left so early.
They always said you were like me — the same habit of chewing on a pen when thinking. The same stubbornness. I was afraid to write — what use would an old woman be? And the past wouldn’t let me go.
I earned this money myself, starting with a small dressmaking studio. Don’t let those sharks from the company intimidate you! They’ve been eyeing my place for a long time. I know times are hard for you without work. Maybe this is my chance to make something right.
Your Rita.”*
“This can’t be real,” I whispered.
Sokolov’s phone rang.
“Yes, Anna Sergeyevna is here… All right, put him through.” He handed me the receiver.
“Monsieur Dupre, executive director of Margarita Petrovna’s company.”
“Hello?” I said uncertainly.
“Mademoiselle Anna?” a sharp voice with an accent replied. “Jean-Pierre Dupre. We are extremely surprised by Madame Savelieva’s decision. To hand the company over to an unknown relative… I insist on a meeting to discuss the firm’s future.”
“I… I haven’t decided anything yet.”
“The funeral is in three days. We expect you in Zurich. Tickets have already been booked.”
I returned home in a daze. My tiny studio suddenly seemed so cramped, so… temporary. And in my head, one number kept spinning: four and a half million euros.
“Unbelievable, Anya, you’re a millionaire now!” I laughed, staring at the crack in the ceiling.
In the cupboard, I found a cheap bottle of wine left over from my birthday. I poured some into a mug. To my late cousin once removed, whom I’d never known, but who turned my life upside down with one will.
The morning of the flight greeted me with a vicious headache. Packing, exchanging currency, frantic attempts to learn a few phrases in French. Neighbor Vitya, to whom I’d shared the news, looked at me like I was crazy.
“They’re scamming you, guaranteed!” he said, spilling tea into the cups. “Remember Tanya from the third floor? She was promised an ‘inheritance from Canada.’ Paid ten grand for paperwork — and that was the end of it.”
“I saw the documents, Vitya. They’re real…”
“Well, well. Just make sure they don’t trick you out of your money,” Vitya snorted. “And if you really do get rich, don’t forget who fixed your radiators.”
I headed to the airport with my heart pounding. What if I was just throwing money away on tickets? Or worse — what if this was some kind of human trafficking scheme?
But in Zurich, a driver was waiting with a sign that read “Ms. Saveljeva.” I flinched when I saw my surname. The black Mercedes glided smoothly away.
“First time in Switzerland?” the driver asked in broken English.
“Yes. First time abroad, actually.”
“Oh! Madame Margarita spoke about you often.”
I stared at him in surprise.
“You knew my grandmother?”
“Of course! I drove Madame for twelve years. Very strict, but fair. Always talked about a niece in Russia.”
We pulled up to a luxurious hotel. In the lobby, a perfectly groomed middle-aged woman was waiting.
“Mademoiselle Anna? I’m Sophie Bernard, Madame Savelieva’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”
In the suite, fruit, champagne, and… a black dress awaited me.
“We ordered it to your approximate size,” Sophie explained. “The funeral is tomorrow. In the evening, dinner with the company’s management.”
“What about shareholders? The board of directors?” I blurted, channeling every American film I’d ever seen.
Sophie smiled.
“Oh, you know business? Madame was right about you.”
She handed me a folder.
“These are the company materials. Jean-Pierre asked me to pass them on. He… is very eager to meet before the funeral.”
“That director? The one who called Moscow?”
Sophie hesitated.
“Yes. But I’d advise against meeting him alone. He’s… not thrilled about your arrival.”
When she left, I collapsed onto a bed the size of my kitchen. My phone chimed — a message from Vitya: “So? Are you a millionaire yet?” I smiled and snapped a selfie with Zurich’s panorama behind me. “Still doesn’t feel real.”
That evening, a knock came at the door. Standing there was a tall man with perfectly styled silver hair.
“Mademoiselle Savelieva? Jean-Pierre Dupre. We need to talk.”
I let him in, feeling my heartbeat in my throat.
“I wasn’t expecting you this early,” I said, tugging at my T-shirt and trying to smooth my hair.
Jean-Pierre walked in without asking, his eyes flicking over my open suitcase and scattered belongings.
“I won’t beat around the bush. This inheritance is a mistake,” he said, his accented speech crisp. “Margarita was… not herself in her final months.”
“What do you mean, ‘not herself’?”
“Her health…” He paused. “Her age. She made decisions that harmed the company. We were all very concerned.”
I crossed my arms.
“And that’s why you rushed to my hotel the moment I arrived?”
Jean-Pierre smiled as if I’d said something amusing.
“Listen, Anna. You’re a teacher from Russia, yes? You know nothing about the luxury business. This company is our life. We’ve built it for twenty years.”
“Together with Margarita,” I pointed out.
“Of course. But now we must think of the future. I can offer you good money for your shares. Three million euros. Cash. You’ll go home a wealthy woman and forget about us.”
I almost choked.
“And how much are they really worth?”
His eyes narrowed.
“That’s a fair price. For someone who invested nothing in the business.”
“If Margarita trusted me with the company, she must have had her reasons.”
Jean-Pierre stood abruptly.
“Think it over by tomorrow. After the funeral, the will is to be read. All the shareholders and press will be there. You don’t want a public scandal, do you?”
He left, and I stood frozen in the middle of the room. My head spun from the unreality of it all.
Half an hour later, another knock. Sophie stood there with a bottle in hand.
“I saw Jean-Pierre leaving. He didn’t look pleased.”
“He offered me three million for the shares,” I said, dropping into a chair.
Sophie pressed her lips together.
“He offered Madame Rita five million for her stake two months ago. She refused.”
“Why?”
Sophie poured the wine into glasses.
“In a month, Saveljeva Fashion goes public. Forecasts show the valuation will triple. Madame Rita knew that. And she also knew Jean-Pierre wanted to push her out. Too old, he said.”
She handed me a flash drive.
“All the company information is here. Real figures, growth plans. And something else… Madame Rita recorded conversations in her office during the last year. Listen to them.”
The next day, I stood at the coffin of a woman I had never known. A black veil hid my tearful eyes — I had spent the whole night listening to recordings and reading documents.
Jean-Pierre approached me after the ceremony.
“I hope you’ve made the right decision,” he whispered.
I looked straight into his eyes.
“Oh yes. I have.”
The hall for the will reading reminded me of a school auditorium where I used to teach. Only instead of parents and teachers, it was filled with shareholders, lawyers, and journalists.
Jean-Pierre sat in the front row, flanked by three men in identical suits. He smiled at me — indulgent, like to a child.
I took a seat next to the notary. Sophie discreetly gave me a thumbs-up.
