Ch. 16..20: SCORNED EX WIFE Chapter 16-20

Chapter 16

Camille's point of view

By four o'clock, my brain felt stuffed with French conjugations and pronunciation corrections. My third coffee of the day wasn't helping the shaking in my hands.

Mrs. Harrington, the etiquette coach, noticed immediately. A lady never allows fatigue to show," she reprimanded, straightening my already-

straight spine.

"Shoulders back. Chin parallel to the floor. Now, let's review the proper handling of difficult dinner conversations."

For two more hours, we practiced responding to inappropriate questions, managing awkward silences, and the subtle art of steering conversations toward or away from specific topics. All skills Victoria deemed When James finally drove me back to the mansion at six, I had exactly forty-

five minutes to prepare for dinner with the board

members. My head pounded. Black spots danced at the edges

of my vision. The thought of making small talk with twelve stern executives made me want to curl into a ball and disappear.

Instead, I changed into the evening dress laid out for me, an elegant black Dior that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. The stylist had left detailed notes about which jewelry to wear and how Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized the sophisticated woman staring back at me. Designer dress. Perfect makeup. Expensive jewelry. I looked like I belonged in Victoria's world of wealth and power. But inside, I felt hollowed out. Empty. A pretty shell with nothing left inside.

My knees buckled suddenly, room

spinning around me. I grabbed the vanity for support, but my arms gave way. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was my reflection sliding sideways in the mirror, eyes closing as consciousness slij

I woke to softness beneath me and the sensation of something cool on my forehead. Opening my eyes slowly, I found myself on my bed, still in the black dress, though someone had removed my shoes.

"The third time this week," Victoria's voice came from nearby. "Your body is telling you something."

I turned my head to find her sitting in a chair

beside my bed, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviewed documents. She didn't look up.

"What time is it?" I croaked, throat dry.

"Nearly nine. James found you when you didn't come down for the

car." She made a note in the margin of whatever she was reading. "I sent your regrets to the board. We'll reschedule." Shame washed over me. "I'm sorry."

Victoria finally looked up, removing her glasses. "For what? Having physical limitations? That's not failure, it's biology"

I struggled to sit up, room tilting

dangerously before settling "The dinner was important."

"Yes. And you were in no condition to attend." She set aside her papers. "Which raises a question about your training regimen."

My heart sank. More lessons? Earlier mornings? I couldn't imagine how my schedule could become more grueling than it already was.

"Why are you doing this to me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, raw and honest in a way I hadn't allowed myself to be since accepting her offer.

Victoria didn't seem offended. If anything, she looked like she'd been expecting the question.

"Because no one becomes powerful by being comfortable, she said, her voice matter-

of-fact. "Not even my own daughter."

She stood, moving to the window that overlooked the mansion's gardens, silver hair gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the glass.

"When I was twenty-

two," she continued, "I worked three jobs while attending night classes. I slept four hours

a night for two years. Collapsed twice from exhaustion. Kept going anyway."

She turned back to face me. "By twenty five, I'd built my first company. By thirty, my first billion. Each step required sacrifice. Comfort and power rarely coexist."

"But this pace isn't sustainable," I protested. "I can't keep.

"Of course you can't," she interrupted. "That's precisely the point."

1 stared at her, confused.

"Pushing beyond your limits shows you where they truly lie," she explained. "Most people never discover their actual capacity because they stop at the first sign of discomfort."

She returned to the chair beside my bed. "The training you've endured these past weeks has taught you more than facts and skills. It's shown you that you're capable of far more than you believed." I considered her words, realizing with surprise that she was right. Three

weeks ago, I couldn't have imagined. absorbing so much information, enduring such physical challenges, maintaining a completely new identity under pressure.

"But now adjustments are necessary," Victoria continued. We've established your baseline. From tomorrow, your schedule will change."

Relief flooded through me. "Fewer lessons?"

"Different distribution," she corrected. "Combat training three days a week instead of five. Business education condensed into more efficient modules. More independent study, less classroom time." She handed me a glass of water from the bedside table. "Your body needs recovery time to strengthen. Your mind needs space to process. Neither benefits from constant pressure without relief."

I sipped the water, studying her over the rim of the glass. "You knew this would happen. The collapse."

"I anticipated it," she acknowledged. "Just as I anticipate your ability to adapt to what comes next."

"Which is?"

"Phase two." Victoria smiled slightly. "The foundation is laid, basic skills, public introduction, established background. Now we build your reputation, your connections, your influence."

She stood again, smoothing, her impeccable suit. "Sleep now. Tomorrow starts later, 9 AM meeting with your new personal physician. He'll assess your physical condition and recommend adjustments to your training.

It felt like a massive concession coming from her. But as she reached the door, she paused, looking back with steel in her eyes.

Chapter 16

"Don't mistake this for softness, Camille. The path ahead remains difficult. But breaking you serves no purpose. I need you strong, capable, and fully functional."

"For revenge," I said quietly.

"For justice," she corrected. "And for the future neither of us could have achieved alone."

After she left, I stared at the ceiling, too exhausted to undress but too wired to sleep immediately. Her words echoed in my mind: No one becomes powerful by being comfortable. Not even my own daughter. The endearment felt strange, both false and oddly genuine I wasn't her daughter, not really. But I wasn't Camille Lewis anymore either. I existed in some in- between state, shedding my old self day by painful day, but not yet fully transformed into whoever I was becoming.

Rolling onto my side, I caught sight of my reflection in the dressing table mirror across the room. Even from here, I could see how different I looked from the woman who had signed divorce papers three weeks Eventually, exhaustion won, pulling me under into dreams filled with fighting shadows and endless tests I couldn't pass. I woke periodically throughout the night, each time remembering Victoria's words before c No one becomes powerful by being comfortable.

By morning, something

had shifted inside me. The resentment remained, but alongside it grew a different feeling, determination. If this brutal regimen was the price of becoming someone who could never be hurt like Camille Lewis ha When my alarm sounded at 8 AM, practically mid-

day compared to my usual wake-up, I rose without the bone-

deep dread that had accompanied each morning for weeks. My body still ached, my mind still felt overloaded, but

something else had grown stronger.

My resolve

The woman in the mirror looked back at me with eyes that matched Victoria's in their determination, if not yet in their confidence. Not quite Camille Lewis anymore. Not fully Camille Kane yet, But getting closer every day.

I showered, dressed in the outfit laid out for me, and headed downstairs where James would be waiting with the car. Each step still hurt, but now I welcomed the pain.

It meant I was changing Growing. Becoming

Chapter 17

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

"Ms.

Lewis, do you think the police should reopen the investigation into your sister's death?"

The reporter's question hit me like ice water as I stepped out of my boutique. Three months. Three months since Camille's car had been pulled from the river. Three months of playing the grieving sister while se I arranged my face into the perfect mask of dignified grief I'd perfected. "My family continues to cooperate fully with authorities," I said, voice carefully modulated to show emotion without appearing unstable. "Bu The reporter pressed closer, microphone extended. "Soutces close to the investigation say no body was ever recovered. Some suggest the case should be treated as a missing person situation rather than a presumed drowning

My heart skipped a beat, though my expression remained steady. "The current was exceptionally strong that night. The police explained this to us. Many drowning victims are never..." I let my voice catch delibe This performance was becoming tedious. I'd given the same answers at the memorial service, at charity events, at business functions. Always the grieving sister, bravely carrying on despite unimaginable loss. I sympathy opening doors, sad smiles earning trust, tearful interviews generating publicity for my fashion line.

But lately, the questions had shifted. Where's the body? Why was she driving there that night? Was there a suicide note? Each one carrying the unspoken suggestion that things didn't add up. "One last question" the reporter started, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I'm late for a meeting with investors. Please respect my family's

privacy during this difficult time."

My driver held the car door open, and I slid inside, dropping the sorrowful expression the moment the tinted windows shielded me from view. Tension coiled in my stomach like a snake. These questions were be "The Lewis Industries offices," I instructed the driver, checking my makeup in a compact mirror. Perfect, as always. Not a crack in the facade.

I glanced at the news alert on my phone as I slid into the car

The headline made my blood freeze.

**HEIRESS DROWNING: QUESTIONS REMAIN**

The article rehashed the basics, Camille's car found partially submerged, no witnesses, no body recovered despite extensive searching. But it also included quotes from a "source close to the investigation" sugg I closed the article with a flick of my finger. My father had probably seen it already. He monitored all news about the family obsessively since Camille's disappearalice,

Of course he was. Daddy never could handle pressure. Always looking to others to fix his problems, usually me, since Camille had been useless in a crisis. Just one more way I'd proven my value to the family t

Chapter 17

The car pulled up to Lewis Industries, the gleaming tower that housed my father's company. The business he'd built from nothing, the empire that should have been mine from the beginning, if not for his sentimentality regarding his biological daughter.

The receptionist smiled as I entered the lobby. "Ms. Lewis, your father is expecting you."

The executive elevator whisked me to the top floor, where Dad's assistant ushered me straight into his office. He stood at the window, back to the door, shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. He'd lost weight "Daddy," I said softly, closing the door behind me. "You wanted to see me?"

He turned, face haggard in ways makeup couldn't hide. None of the fake grief I'd perfected, but genuine suffering etched into every line. It was pathetic, really. All this pain for a daughter who had never apprecia "Rose." He opened his arms, and I stepped into them, playing my part

perfectly. The supportive daughter. The family's rock. "Have you seen the papers?"

"Just now. It's nothing, tabloid nonsense."

He released me, moving to his desk where several newspapers lay open. Not just the Post, but the Times, the Journal. All running variations of the same story.

"The board is concerned," he said, sinking into his chair. These rumors... the suggestion of impropriety... it's affecting investor confidence."

I perched on the edge of his desk, laying a comforting hand on his arm. "The police investigation was thorough. The case is closed. These are just reporters looking for a story where none exists."

"Your mother hired a private investigator."

The words hit me like a slap. "She what?"

Dad rubbed his temples, looking older by the minute. "Behind my back. Said she couldn't live with unanswered questions. Needed closure."

Panic fluttered in my chest, but I kept my voice level. "That's unnecessary. And potentially damaging to the company if it suggests we don't trust the official investigation."

"That's what I told her!" His fist hit the desk, a rare display of temper. "But she won't listen. Ever since... since we lost Camille, she's been different. Distant. Suspicious."

Of me, he meant. Though he wouldn't say it aloud. Moin had always been more perceptive than him, more likely to see through my careful manipulations. She'd been watching me with narrowed eyes at family "I'll talk to her," I promised, mind already racing through potential problems. A private investigator meant questions. Digging Potentially uncovering things better left buried.

Like the men I'd hired to scare Camille. The ones who were supposed to rough her up a bit, send a message, then disappear. Not force her car off a bridge. Not kill her. That hadn't been the plan. Excessive, messy, and

unnecessary. But what was done was done, and I'd adapted accordingly. Tragedy could be useful when properly managed

"It's not just the investigation," Dad continued, looking miserable. "The memorial fund donations have raised questions too. That Times reporter asked for a breakdown of how the money's being used." The Camille Lewis Memorial Fund, my masterstroke. Set up ostensibly to support mental health awareness, it had

Chapter 17.

generated nearly two million in donations, much of which was currently financing my fashion line's expansion. All perfectly legal, with the right paperwork and the right accountants. But not something that would "I'll have the Foundation's accountants prepare a statement," I said smoothly. "Complete transparency will put these questions to rest."

Dad nodded, clearly relieved to have me handling

things. Always so eager to believe the best of me. To see me as the good daughter, the responsible one. The worthy heir.

"There's one more thing," he said, hesitation in his voice. "Detective Ramirez called this morning. They found something downstream. A... a shoe. They think it might be Camille's."

My stomach dropped. "After three months in the water?"

"Caught in debris, apparently. They want us to identify it."

A shoe. Just a shoe. Not a body. Not evidence of anything except that my sister had been wearing footwear when her car went into the river. Still, it unsettled me. Physical evidence connecting Camille to the wa

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning." He looked away. "Would you go? Your mother can't handle it, and I..."

"Of course." I squeezed his hand, the dutiful daughter once more. "I'll handle everything."

I left his office with my mind churning. Too many loose threads. The newspaper articles. Mom's private investigator. Now this shoe. Small things individually, but together they formed a pattern I didn't like. Quest My phone buzzed as I reached the lobby. A text from one of my investors, confirming our meeting tomorrow. I

responded quickly, promising to bring the updated business projections.

As my car arrived, I couldn't help but feel irritation building. These questions about Camille's

disappearance were becoming an unwelcome distraction from my business plans. The last thing I needed was police reopening the case and digging into details better left buried.

Details that only I knew. The men I'd hired to scare Camille that night. The plan that had gone terribly wrong when they forced her car off the bridge instead of just delivering a warning. A miscalculation I hadn't a

The afternoon crawled by in a haze of meetings and phone calls. My fashion line was gaining traction, featured in Vogue last month, celebrities requesting custom pieces. Everything I'd worked for was falling int Except these damned questions that wouldn't die.

Chapter 18

Rose point in view

By evening, I was exhausted from maintaining the perfect balance of grieving sister and focused businesswoman. My driver took me to my parents' house for our weekly family dinner, a tradition I'd insisted on

In reality, these dinners served to monitor my parents, manage the family narrative, and remind everyone of my central role in holding things together post- tragedy. Tonight, however, I dreaded facing Mom's suspicious eyes. The house looked the same as always, manicured lawn, gleaming windows, tasteful luxury evident in every detail. The home I'd been brough established my dominance over every aspect of family life.

Helen, the housekeeper, opened the door before I could ring the bell. They're in the sitting room, Miss Rose." Your mother's had... a difficult day."

Mom was drinking again. Perfect. An inebriated mother was easier to manage than a suspicious one.

I found them exactly as expected-

Dad with a financial report, pretending to work while actually hiding; Morn on her third martini, staring at nothing. The picture of a family fractured by loss.

"Evening," I said brightly, kissing each of their cheeks. "Helen's cooking smells amazing"

Mom looked up, eyes slightly unfocused. "You're late."

"Investor meeting ran long, Good news, though, we've secured funding for the international expansion." Dad attempted a smile. "That's wonderful, princess. Your business acumen never ceases to amaze me." "You're in no condition," Dad muttered, not looking up from his papers. "Rose will handle it."

Mom's laugh was bitter, cutting. "Rose handles everything, doesn't she? So capable. So composed. Never a hair out of place, even when discussing her sister's remains."

The accusation in her tone was unmistakable. I kept my expression neutral, concerned but steady. "Mom, I know this is difficult. But falling apart won't bring Camille back. Someone needs to stay strong for this "This family." She snorted, taking another sip of her drink. What family? My daughter is dead. My husband buries himself in work rather than face his grief. And you...

She trailed off, studying me with eyes suddenly sharper than her intoxication suggested.

"And I what?" I asked softly.

The moment stretched, tension crackling between us. For an instant, I thought she might actually say it, the suspicion I'd seen growing in her gaze over recent weeks. The doubt that had prompted her to hire a But Dad intervened, setting aside his papers with forced cheer. "Let's eat, shall we? No sense letting Helen's cooking go cold.":

Chapter.

Dinner was excruciating, Mom alternating between silent glaring and pointed barbs, Dad attempting desperately to Maintain normal conversation, me navigating the minefield with practiced ease. By dessert, I was mentally exhausted.

"I've been thinking," Mom said as Helen served coffee, "about Camille's journals."

I froze, cup halfway to my lips. "Journals?"

"She kept them since childhood. Hidden in that loose floorboard in her closet, though she thought I didn't know." Mom's eyes never left my face. "Interesting reading"

Ice filled my veins. Camille's journals. The private thoughts of a girl who saw more than she let on, who might have documented suspicions, patterns, manipulations over the years. Things I definitely didn't want "Perhaps." Mom sipped her coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "But they've given me such insight into her state of mind in those final weeks. Her concerns about her marriage. Her doubts about certain relationshi Dad shifted uncomfortably. "Margaret, is this appropriate dinner conversation?"

"When is it appropriate to discuss our

daughter's death, Richard? When is it convenient to question why her body was never found? When should we examine why she drove to that bridge on a night she was supposed to be meeting you?" She poin There it was. The accusation I'd been sensing. The dangerous question.

"I told the police," I said calmly, "Camille canceled our dinner plans at the last minute. Said she wasn't feeling well. I assumed she went home."

"Yes, that's what you told them." Mom's voice was dangerously quiet. "But her journal entry that day says she was excited about your dinner. About reconnecting with her sister after all the 'misunderstandings' a "People

change their minds, Mom. Maybe she wrote that earlier in the day, before she started feeling unwell." "Maybe." Mom set down her cup with deliberate care. "Or maybe something else happened. Something that "Margaret!" Dad's voice was sharp with warning. "You can't possibly be suggesting..."

"I'm not suggesting anything." She stood, swaying slightly "I'm simply a mother with questions about her daughter's death. Questions our other daughter seems strangely reluctant to explore."

With that parting shot, she left the dining room, her footsteps unsteady on the stairs. Dad and I sat in stunned silence for several long moments.

"She doesn't mean it," he finally said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Grief makes people irrational. She'll come around."

But we both knew she wouldn't. The seed of doubt had been planted, and now it was growing, fed by newspaper articles and missing bodies and mysterious journal entries

I left shortly after, pleading work commitments. In the car finally allowed myself to drop the mask, anxiety crawling across my skin like ants. This was bad, Worse that I'd anticipated.. Mom's suspicions. The journals. The private investigator.

Even Stefan might turn against me if he learned the full truth. He'd been increasingly distant these past weeks, withdrawing into grief and guilt over the divorce papers he'll signed the day before Camille disappe I'd carefully nurtured that belief, of course. Better he blame himself than look too closely at me. Better everyone think Camille had been driven to desperation by her failing marriage than suspect I'd arranged for I poured myself a drink as soon as I entered my apartment, mind racing through contingencies. First priority: find those journals and see exactly what Camille had written. Second: ensure my mother's private investigator discovered nothing but evidence supporting the accident theory.

And if that didn't work? A chill ran through me, not fear, but cold determination. When I faced myself in the mirror, my expression was steady, certain.

Then I'd create a new narrative. One where my grief-

stricken mother, unable to accept the

tragic loss of her daughter, became obsessed with conspiracy theories and wild accusations.

Yes, I'd discredit my own mother if necessary. I'd do whatever it took to protect what I'd built

Tomorrow I would identify the shoe they found, with appropriate sisterly emotion. Then I'd visit Mom, see if I could locate those journals. The situation was still manageable, still within my control.

Even Stefan, unwittingly useful in my plans, would continue playing his part, the grieving ex-

husband who'd found comfort with his wife's sister after an appropriate mourning period. He had no idea how I'd orchestrated everything, from the

beginning of their relationship to its tragic end.

Men like Stefan were

so easy to manipulate. So eager to believe what you wanted them to believe. So desperate to be loved that they never questioned the convenient timing of your affections.

If those journals contained what I feared, Camille's observations of my manipulations, her documentation of our conflicts, her growing suspicions about my intentions, they could provide exactly the motive police And reopening the case was precisely what my mother seemed determined to achieve.

The direct approach confronting Mom, demanding the journals, would only confirm her suspicions. Searching her house while they slept risked discovery. Having them stolen would raise obvious questions. No, I needed something subtler. A way to discredit

the journals if they surfaced, or better yet, ensure they never

did.

By the time I reached my apartment, a plan was forming. Mom's drinking had increased

steadily since Camille's disappearance. Her behavior was becoming erratic,

her accusations more pointed. With the right nudge, I could push her from grieving mother to unstable conspiracy theorist in the eyes of everyone who mattered.

Entering my apartment, 1 kicked off my heels and poured a glass of wine. Tomorrow would begin with identifying a waterlogged shoe, continuing my performance as the dutiful, grieving sister. But behind that m I'd come too far to be derailed now. My fashion line was talding off. My place in society was secured. The family fortune would eventually be mine alone. Everything was proceeding according to plan, despite th As I prepared for bed, my phone pinged with a news alert. opened it, expecting more questions

about Camille's case.

Instead, the headline made my blood freeze.

**RECLUSIVE HEIRESS REVEALED: VICTORIA KANE INTRODUCES ADOPTED DAUGHTER AS COMPANY SUCCESSOR

Beneath it, a photo showed Victoria Kane, tech Trillionaire, ruthless business titan, notorious recluse, standing beside a striking young woman with sharp cheekbones and penetrating eyes. The caption identified Something about the woman's face tickled at my memory. Something familiar in the eyes, the stance, the subtle tilt of her chin. But different enough that I couldn't place it.

The article detailed how this mysterious Camille Kane had been adopted as a child, educated at elite European schools, and was now stepping into the spotlight as Victoria's heir apparent. A business prodigy w I skimmed the piece, irritated by the distraction. Some rich woman's pet project had

no bearing on my current problems. I closed the article and set my phone aside, returning to more pressing concerns.

The shoe. The journals. My mother's suspicions. Stefan's weakness. All issues requiring immediate attention. Yet as I drifted toward sleep, the image of Camille Kane's face floated in my mind. Those eyes. Whe A problem for another day. Tonight, I needed rest before

tomorrow's performance at the police station. The grieving sister, identifying a shoe

that might have belonged to her beloved Camille. A heartrending scene in the ongoing tragedy.

The show must go on. At least until I could ensure the final curtain fell exactly where and how I wanted it to.

 

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

CAMILLE'S

'S POINT OF VIEW

Four months into my new life as Camille Kane, I finally had a day to myself. No combat training with Jason. No business lessons. No public appearances or meetings with Victoria's corporate associates. Just tw four hours of unscheduled time stretching before me like an unexpected gift.

I'd almost forgotten what freedom felt like.

The morning sun streamed through my bedroom windows as I lingered over breakfast on my private balcony. Below, gardeners tended the immaculate grounds of Victoria's estate, a sprawling property that occ But not today.

I dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, clothes I rarely wore now that my wardrobe consisted primarily of designer business attire and

formal wear. My reflection in the mirror still startled me sometimes, the sharper cheekbones, the more refined nose, the elegant bob that had replaced my once-

long hair. A woman designed for power rather than pleasing others.

Victoria had left at dawn for a business trip to Tokyo, taking James and her usual security detail with her. The mansion felt different without her commanding presence, quieter, less intense, almost peaceful. "Ms. Kane?" A soft knock accompanied the housekeeper's voice. "Will you be needing anything before I leave for my sister's wedding?"

Mrs. Chen, the only staff member who lived off-

premises, had mentioned the family event weeks ago. "No, thank you, Mrs. Chen. Enjoy the wedding."

"There's food prepared in the refrigerator. I'll return tomorrow evening."

Her footsteps faded down the hallway. Minutes later, the distant sound of the service entrance closing left me truly alone in the massive house for the first time since my arrival. Completely alone. No Victoria. No staff. No security beyond the perimeter guards who monitored the property's edges without entering the grounds.

Perfect

I'd been mapping the mansion in my head for

months, noting areas I was subtly discouraged from entering, doors that remained locked, topics that caused Victoria to change the conversation. One section in particular had drawn my curiosity, the cast wing Today, I would solve that mystery.

I made my way through the mansion's main floor, footsteps echoing on marble and hardwood. How strange to walk these grand hallways without Victoria's watchful eyes tracking my movements, evaluating my The main staircase swept upward in a graceful curve, its carved banister cool beneath my palm. Second floor, then third. The hallway branched in four directions, cach leading to a different wing. The corridor to the east wing ended in a heavy wooden door with an ornate handle, and as expected, it was locked,

I examined it closely, remembering, Jason's lessons about security and access points. Not a keypad or electronic lock, but an old-

fashioned key lock, the kind barely seen in homes of this caliber anymore. Deliberately old-

fashioned. Deliberately personal.

A key would be needed. But where would Victoria keep a key to a door she clearly wanted to remain closed? Her office seemed the logical place to start. I made my way back down to the main floor, to the wood paneled room where Victoria handled matters too private for her corporate

headquarters. The door was unlocked, a surprise given her usual caution, but then, she likely never expected me to explore while she was gone.

Sunlight poured through tall windows, illuminating the space that perfectly reflected its owner: elegant, Intimidating, deliberately impressive. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface bare except for a la I hesitated at the threshold. This felt different from my curiosity about the locked wing. This was a deliberate invasion of Victoria's private space, a breach of the trust she'd placed in me. But wasn't she invading Decision made, I crossed to the desk, immediately drawn to the framed photo. It showed a younger Victoria with her arm around a smiling young woman who could only be Sophia, tall, confident, with eyes that Happy. They looked genuinely happy.

I set the photo down carefully, exactly as I'd found it, and began my search. The desk drawers yielded nothing of interest, business papers, correspondence, a spare pair of reading glasses. No keys.

Next, I examined the bookshelves lining the walls, looking for hidden compartments or safes. Nothing. The elegant cabinet bar contained only spirits and crystal glasses. The paintings, all originals by renowned I was about to give up when I noticed a small decorative box on one of the bookshelves, half-

hidden behind leather -

bound volumes. Made of carved jade with silver fittings, it seemed out of place among the business books and historical biographies.

Inside lay a single brass key, antique and heavy in my palm. It looked exactly like what would fit the lock to the east wing.

Heart beating faster, I returned to the third floor, key clutched tightly in my hand. At the locked door, I hesitated again, knowing I was crossing a boundary that might change my relationship with Victoria forever. But I'd come too far to turn back. I inserted the key, feeling the mechanism shift as I turned it. A soft click, and the door swung open into darkness.

The corridor beyond was shadowed, curtains drawn over windows that would have illuminated it naturally. 1 fumbled for a light switch, finding one just inside the doorway. Soft lighting revealed a hallway lined w Sophia as a toddler in a frilly dress. Sophia in a cap and gown, proudly holding a diploma. Sophia laughing on a sailboat, wind catching her hair. In each image, her resemblance to me was undeniable, despite t No wonder Victoria had been drawn to me after seeing my photo. The resemblance was unsettling even to me.

The hallway opened into a small sitting

area, preserved like a museum exhibit. Magazines from ten years ago lay on coffee tables. A half-

finished chess game sat frozen in time, pieces dust less despite the years, suggesting regular cleaning. Two teacups rested on saucers beside the chess board, as if the players had just stepped away momenta Victoria and Sophia's last game together? The thought sent a shiver through me.

Three doors led from the sitting area. I tried the first, finding

a small study with a desk covered in engineering textbooks and mathematical journals. Notes in a neat, precise handwriting filled notebooks stacked beside a laptop that looked ancient by today's standards. A M Sophia's study area. Preserved exactly as she'd left it a decade ago.

The second door revealed a bathroom, everything feminine and elegant. Makeup still arranged on the counter, perfume bottles lined up precisely, a toothbrush in a holder beside the sink.

The third door, slightly ajar, took my breath away.

Sophia's bedroom. A large, beautiful space decorated in shades of blue and silver, dominated by a queen-

sized bed with an intricate wrought iron headboard. Sunlight streamed through a gap in heavy curtains, illuminating dust mates dancing in the air.

I stepped inside, feeling like an intruder in a sacred space. The room smelled faintly of lavender and something else, a lingering trace of perfume, perhaps. Everything was immaculate, from the precisely made Photos covered one wall, Sophia with friends, with Victoria, with a handsome young man who must have been Oliver Preston, the fiancé whose family had arranged her fatal “accident." In many of the images,

On the bedside table sat a framed photo of Sophia and Victoria, arms around each other, foreheads touching, smiling with such genuine joy

that my chest ached looking at it. The kind of mother-

daughter relationship I'd never had, never even witnessed between Rose and my own mother.

I picked up the photo, studying the happiness captured there. Victoria,cold, demanding, perfectionistic Victoria, looked transformed by love for her daughter. Softer. More human. "What are you doing in here?"

 

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Camille's point of view.

The voice behind me sent the frame tumbling from my hands. It hit the carpet with a muffled thud as I spun around.

Victoria stood in the doorway, her expression a storm of fury and pain. Her usually perfect appearance was disheveled, clothes wrinkled from travel, hair slightly mussed, as if she'd rushed home unexpectedly. "L...I thought you were in Tokyo," I stammered, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Flight canceled due to mechanical issues." Her eyes swept the room, cataloging any disturbance I might have caused. "You didn't answer my question."

I could have lied. Could have claimed I got lost,

accidentally found the key, had innocent reasons for snooping But something in Victoria's face, the raw wound exposed beneath her anger, demanded honesty.

"I was curious," I admitted, bending to retrieve the fallen photo frame. "About the locked wing. About why it was. off-

limits."

"So you invaded my privacy. Searched my office for the key. Entered a space clearly meant to remain closed." Each sentence fell like a judgment, cold and precise. "Yes." No excuses. No justifications.

Victoria's gaze settled on the photo in my hands. Something flickered across her expression, grief so intense it momentarily overwhelmed the anger.

"Put that down," she said quietly. "And get out."

I carefully returned the frame to its place. "Victoria, I..."

"Now."

I moved toward the door, expecting her to step aside. Instead, she remained planted in the doorway, forcing me to squeeze past her, close enough to feel the rigid tension in her body, to smell the subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the staleness of long- haul travel.

In the sitting area, I paused, turning back to find her still watching from Sophia's doorway, one hand gripping the frame as if for support. "I'm sorry," I said softly. "I shouldn't have..."

"Do you know what today is?" she interrupted, voice unnaturally controlled.

I shook my head, unease growing at the intensity of her gaze.

"It's her birthday." Victoria's knuckles whitened on the doorframe. "She would have been thirty-

three today."

The revelation hit like a physical blow. Of all days to violate this sanctuary, I'd chosen the one when Victoria's grief would be freshest, most raw,

"I didn't know," I whispered.

"No." Something in her tone shifted, the cold fury giving way to something more complex. "You didn't. Because I never told you."

She finally stepped away from the doorway, moving to the chess board in the sitting area. With careful precision, she adjusted one of the pieces, a knight moving to threaten a bishop. "Sophia loved chess," she said, not looking at me. "Insisted it helped her think strategically. We played every Sunday morning. This was our last game, the morning before she died."

I remained motionless, afraid any movement might shatter this unexpected moment of vulnerability.

me, I

"I've kept it exactly as we left it. Sometimes I sit here and try to remember what move she was contemplating" Victoria's finger hovered over a white pawn. "She always took her time, considered every possibility The parallel to our relationship, her aggressive molding of me, my attempts to anticipate her expectations, hung unspoken between us.

"Ten years," Victoria continued, finally looking up at me. "Ten years of coming here on her birthday, sitting in her space, pretending for a few hours that she's just stepped out. That she'll return any moment with My chest tightened at the naked pain in her expression. Gone was the formidable businesswoman, the ruthless mentor, the demanding adoptive mother. In her place stood simply a woman hollowed by grief, pr "She was more than my daughter," Victoria said, sinking onto the sofa beside the chess set. "She was the best of me. The kindness I couldn't afford to show, the warmth I'd forgotten how to express, the hope l' I cautiously sat opposite

her, feeling the weight of the moment. Victoria had never spoken this openly before, never revealed so much of herself.

"When she died, I wanted to die too." She touched a chess piece, the black queen, with gentle fingers. "But then revenge became my purpose. Destroying the Prestons gave me a reason to continue. And when "Until you saw my photo," I said softly.

Her eyes met mine, sharp with sudden intensity. "Do you know what I thought when I first saw you? Not just that you looked like her, though the resemblance was striking. I thought: here's another bright young power over it."

Victoria leaned forward slightly. "I recognized in you what the Prestons tried to stamp out in Sophia. Potential, Intelligence. A fundamental strength your family never nurtured."

"But you barely knew me," I countered. "One photo in a society magazine...."

"I had you investigated thoroughly," she interrupted. "Every aspect of your life examined. Your education records. Your medical history. Your social circles. The more I learned, the more clearly I saw the parallels "Differences?"

"Sophia was loved. Cherished. Supported in all her dreams You were undermined at every turn, yet still fought to carve out your own space. Imagine what you might have become with proper nurturing instead of constant sabotage,"

The observation stung with its accuracy. All my life, I'd been swimming against the current of my family's preferences, Rose's manipulations, society's expectations