The phone rang so suddenly that I almost knocked over my cup of instant coffee. Seven in the morning! Who on earth would call at such an hour? An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.
“Hello,” my voice sounded hoarse after a sleepless night spent on translations.
“Anna Sergeevna? This is Igor Vladimirovich Sokolov, a notary. Sorry for calling so early, but it’s urgent. We need to meet today.”
I rubbed my eyes. A notary? Did I have some problem with my apartment? Just what I needed.
“What’s the matter? I have three classes and two client meetings today.”
“It’s about an inheritance. I can’t discuss the details over the phone. I expect you at ten o’clock at the notary office on Lenina Street, 15.”
He hung up, and I stood there clutching the phone. Inheritance? From whom? My parents passed away five years ago, Grandma Liza three years ago. I didn’t have any other relatives.
“Idiot, Anya,” I muttered, “this must be some kind of mistake.”
I spent the next hour rushing around the apartment. Absentmindedly checked my email—there was a letter from my landlord reminding me about the rent increase. Perfect. After being laid off from the language school, I barely had enough to 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!
“God, what am I thinking?” I slammed the door shut. “This is some scam.”
By half-past nine, I was already standing at the notary office door. The small room with peeling walls did not inspire confidence.
“Anna Sergeevna?” 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 don’t have any relatives left.”
Sokolov pulled out a folder with documents.
“Did you know Margarita Petrovna Savelieva?”
I frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“I think Grandma mentioned her… My grandfather’s sister? She went abroad ages ago.”
“Yes. Margarita Petrovna moved to Switzerland in the 1970s. She passed away two weeks ago in Zurich.”
“And what does that have to do with me? We never even communicated.”
Sokolov took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth.
“The thing is, you are listed as the sole heir to all her property.”
I laughed—loudly and nervously.
“You’re joking, right? Some distant relative I’ve never even seen left me an inheritance? Sounds like a scam.”
“Believe me, this is no joke,” he handed me some papers. “Here’s the international death certificate, notarized. And here’s a copy of the will.”
My eyes skimmed the lines, and the room started spinning.
“Four and a half million euros? A villa in Italy? Company shares? This has to be a mistake.”
“No mistake. Margarita Petrovna founded a chain of luxury clothing boutiques. Her fortune is estimated at around six million euros.”
“But why me?” I gripped the armrests of the chair.
Sokolov took out a sealed envelope.
“She left you a letter. Maybe you’ll find the answers there.”
My hands trembled as I opened the envelope. The handwriting was small and neat:
“Anechka!
You don’t know me, and I’ve never seen you. But after your grandfather Petya (my brother) passed, I asked Zina Kruglova (remember her?) to tell me about your family from time to time. That’s how I learned about your school successes, university, about your mom and dad. God, how sad that they left so early.
People always told me you looked like me. Same habit of chewing on a pen when thinking. Same stubbornness. I was afraid to write to you—why would an old woman be needed? And the past wouldn’t let me go.
I earned this money myself, starting from a small atelier. Don’t let those sharks from the company scare you! They’ve been eyeing my spot for years. I know how hard it is for you now without a job. Maybe this is my chance to make something right.
Your Rita.”
“This is unreal,” I whispered.
Sokolov’s phone rang.
“Yes, Anna Sergeevna is here… Okay, connect us.”
He handed me the receiver.
“Monsieur Dupré, the company’s executive director.”
“Hello?” I said uncertainly.
“Mademoiselle Anna?” A sharp voice with an accent. “Jean-Pierre Dupré. We are extremely surprised by Madame Savelieva’s decision. To hand over the company to an unknown relative… I insist on a meeting to discuss the company’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 felt so cramped, so… temporary. And the number kept spinning in my head: four and a half million euros.
“Holy crap, Anya, you’re a millionaire now!” I laughed, looking at the crack on the ceiling.
There was a bottle of cheap wine left from my birthday in the cupboard. I poured some into a cup. To the late great-aunt I never knew, who turned my life upside down with a single will.
The morning before the flight greeted me with a splitting headache. Packing, exchanging currency, desperately trying to memorize a few French phrases. Neighbor Vitya, to whom I shared the news, looked at me like I was crazy.
“They’re scamming you, for sure!” he said, spilling tea into mugs. “Remember Tanya from the third floor? She also had some ‘inheritance from Canada.’ Paid ten grand for processing—and poof.”
“I saw the documents, Vitia. They’re real.”
“Well, just don’t get swindled. And if you really do become rich, don’t forget who fixed your radiators.”
On the way to the airport, my heart was pounding. What if I just waste money on tickets? Or worse—what if it’s some human trafficking scheme?
But in Zurich, a driver holding a sign “Ms. Saveljeva” met me. I even flinched, seeing my last name. A black Mercedes glided smoothly away.
“First time in Switzerland?” the driver asked in broken English.
“Yes. First time abroad, actually.”
“Oh! Madame Margarita spoke a lot about you.”
I stared at him in surprise.
“You knew my grandmother?”
“Of course! I drove Madame for twelve years. Very strict, but fair. Always spoke about her niece from Russia.”
We arrived at a luxurious hotel. In the lobby, a perfectly styled middle-aged woman was waiting for me.
“Mademoiselle Anna? I’m Sophie Bernard, Madame Savelieva’s personal assistant. Please follow me.”
In the room were fruit, champagne, and… a black dress.
“We ordered it to your approximate measurements,” Sophie explained. “The funeral is tomorrow. In the evening, there’s dinner with the company management.”
“What about the shareholders? The board of directors?” I blurted out the first thing that came to mind from American movies.
Sophie smiled.
“Oh, you know about business? Madame wasn’t wrong about you.”
She handed me a folder.
“Here are the company materials. Jean-Pierre asked me to give them to you. He… really wants to meet before the funeral.”
“That director? The one who called Moscow?”
Sophie hesitated.
“Yes. But I advise you not to meet him alone. He’s… not very happy about your arrival.”
She left, and I collapsed onto a bed the size of my entire kitchen. My phone pinged—a message from Vitya: “So, you a millionaire yet?” I smiled and took a selfie with the Zurich skyline. “Still doesn’t feel real.”
In the evening, there was a knock on the door. A tall man with perfectly styled gray hair stood on the threshold.
“Mademoiselle Savelieva? Jean-Pierre Dupré. We need to talk.”
I let him in, feeling my heart pounding in my throat.
“I wasn’t expecting you so early,” I said, smoothing my messy hair.
Jean-Pierre walked in without even asking. His eyes scanned my open suitcase and scattered belongings.
“I’ll be direct. This inheritance is a mistake,” he said with a clear accent. “Margarita wasn’t… herself in recent months.”
“What do you mean ‘not herself’?”
“Her health… age. She made decisions that harmed the company. We were all very concerned.”
I crossed my arms.
“And that’s why you ran to my hotel right after I arrived?”
Jean-Pierre smiled like 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 built it for twenty years.”
“Together with Margarita,” I added.
“Of course. But now it’s about the future. I can offer you a good deal for your shares. Three million euros. Cash. You’ll return home a wealthy woman and forget about us.”
I almost choked.
“And how much are they actually worth?”
His eyes narrowed.
“That’s a fair price. For someone who invested nothing in this business.”
“If Margarita entrusted me with the company, she had her reasons.”
Jean-Pierre suddenly stood.
“Think it over until tomorrow. After the funeral, the will is to be read. All shareholders and the 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 was spinning from the unreality of it all.
Half an hour later, there was another knock. Sophie stood at the door with a bottle.
“I saw Jean-Pierre leaving. He looked displeased.”
“He offered me three million for the shares,” I flopped into an armchair.
Sophie pursed her lips.
“He offered Madame Rita five million for her stake two months ago. She refused.”
“Why?”
Sophie poured wine into glasses.
“In a month, Saveljeva Fashion goes public. Projections show the valuation will triple. Madame Rita knew this. And she also knew Jean-Pierre wanted to push her out. Too old, he said.”
She handed me a flash drive.
“All the company data is here. Real numbers, development plans. And something else… Madame Rita recorded her office conversations this past year. Listen to them.”
The next day, I stood by the coffin of a woman I had never met. A black veil hid my tear-streaked eyes—I’d spent the night listening to recordings and reading documents.
Jean-Pierre approached me after the ceremony.
“I hope you made the right decision,” he whispered.
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“Oh yes. I have.”
The reading of the will took place in a hall that reminded me of the auditorium at my school. Except instead of parents and teachers, there were shareholders, lawyers, and journalists.
Jean-Pierre sat in the front row, flanked by three identical-suited men. He smiled at me condescendingly, like I was a child.
I took a seat next to the notary. Sophie discreetly gave me a thumbs-up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the gray-haired notary in English. “We are here to read the last will of Margarita Petrovna Savelieva.”
He went through the formalities and then to the main point:
“The company Saveljeva Fashion, with all assets and subsidiaries, a controlling stake of 51%, and personal funds amounting to four and a half million euros are bequeathed to the sole heir, Anna Sergeevna Savelieva.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Jean-Pierre straightened, his face frozen.
“Before concluding the procedure,” the notary continued, “the heiress would like to address those present.”
I stood, pausing for a moment. In my mind, Grandma Liza’s voice echoed: “Don’t be afraid, Anyuta. You’re stronger than you think.”
“I never met Margarita Petrovna,” I began. “But yesterday I got to know her very well. Through her letters, through those who loved her. And through recordings she made in her office this past year.”
I held up the flash drive.
“Here is a recording from March 15. Jean-Pierre Dupré discusses with the head of legal how to remove Margarita from company management,” I turned to the frozen director. “Quote: ‘The old woman has lost her mind. After the IPO, we’ll get rid of her and split the shares among ourselves.’ End quote.”
The hall buzzed. Jean-Pierre jumped up:
“That’s fake! She doesn’t understand anything about business!”
“Really?” I opened the folder. “Then explain why the official IPO documents show profits 40% higher than the reports given to Margarita? Or why the contract with Chinese suppliers is signed through an offshore company owned by your wife?”
A shareholder in the second row stood up:
“We demand these accusations be investigated!”
“The audit is already underway,” I said calmly. “Margarita initiated it a week before her death. Results will be out next week.”
Jean-Pierre lunged for the exit, but two policemen were already at the door.
“The Swiss prosecutor’s office is very interested in certain transactions,” I added.
Three months later, I sat in the office that once belonged to Margarita. Boutique photos from around the world hung on the walls. On my desk were photos of Grandma Liza and my parents.
Sophie walked in with a stack of papers.
“Shares soared 30% after the IPO. You’re now officially the richest woman in Russia,” she smiled.
“And the busiest,” I sipped coffee. “By the way, are the documents for the educational foundation ready?”
“Yes. The Elizaveta Savelieva Foundation starts next month.”
That evening, I stood on the balcony of the villa on Lake Como. My phone vibrated—it was Vitya calling.
“So how’s life, millionaire? Haven’t gotten too big for us little folks?”
I laughed.
“Can you believe I went to the supermarket myself yesterday? Security nearly lost their minds.”
“When are you coming back to Russia?”
“Next week. Need to sign the documents for the education center.”
“People here say you’ve changed,” Vitya said carefully.
“What do you think?”
“I think you just became who you always were. Only now you have opportunities.”
I smiled and looked at the sunset over the lake.
“You know, money really does change life. But how it changes it—we decide ourselves.”
A year later, Saveljeva Fashion opened its first design school for talented kids from low-income families. And I realized that Margarita’s true legacy wasn’t the millions or the villa. It was the chance to change someone’s life for the better—just like she changed mine.