Ch. 21..25: SCORNED EX WIFE Chapter 21-25
Chapter 20
"That's why I offered you this chance," Victoria continued. "Not just because you resembled her physically. Not just for revenge against those who hurt you. But because I recognized something worth saving. W of my value independent of my usefulness for revenge or my resemblance to Sophia. "When I saw you in here," Victoria said, gesturing toward Sophia's bedroom, "my first thought wasn't anger at the invasion o that you might damage something, change something, disrupt the preservation of her space."
"I would never," I began, but she raised a hand to silence me.
"I know. But grief isn't rational. This wing has remained untouched for a decade, cleaned only by me, entered
only by me. These rooms are all I have left of her physical presence in the world."
She stood suddenly, moving back to the bedroom doorway staring inside with an expression of such longing it made my throat tighten,
"She was brilliant," Victoria said softly. "Could have run the company better than I ever did. Had this extraordinary ability to see connections others missed. But more importantly, she was kind. Genuinely kind, in I joined
her at the doorway, following her gaze to the room bathed in afternoon sunlight. "Tell me about her," said. "Not just the facts I could find in news articles or company biographies. Tell me who she really was." Victoria glanced at me, surprise evident in her expression. Then something softened around her eyes.
"She snorted when she laughed too hard. Couldn't carry a tune to save her life but sang constantly anyway. Loved spicy food and old black-
and-
white movies and thunderstorms." A small, genuine smile touched Victoria's lips. She had this ridiculous collection of novelty socks, zombies and dinosaurs and
mathematical equations. Said life was too serious not to have silly socks."
Each detail built a picture of a real person, not just the perfect daughter of Victoria's rare mentions or the tragic victim of a calculated accident. A young woman with quirks and passions and imperfections. "She sounds wonderful," I said sincerely.
"She was." Victoria's smile faded. "And I couldn't protect her."
The admission carried such weight, Victoria Kane, who controlled billion-
dollar deals and intimidated world leaders, acknowledging her ultimate failure at the one thing that truly mattered to her.
"Is that why you're training me so ruthlessly?" I asked, the connection suddenly clear. "To ensure can protect myself when you can't protect me?"
Chapter 21
Camille's point of view
Victoria's gaze sharpened. "Yes. Every lesson, every challenge, every seemingly excessive demand, they all serve that purpose. To make you stronger than Sophia was. More prepared for the dangers wealth a "That too," she acknowledged. "The people who hurt you must pay for what they've done. But beyond revenge lies something more important, your future. What you'll build after justice is served."
I considered her words, understanding for the first time that Victoria's vision extended beyond my usefulness as an instrument of revenge. She was investing in me for reasons beyond my resemblance to Sophi "I still shouldn't have come in here without permission," said after a moment. "This space is sacred to you. I violated that."
Victoria sighed, tension visibly leaving her shoulders. "Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps it was even
necessary." She turned fully toward me. "You cannot become who you need to be while seeing me as merely a mentor or benefactor. You need to
understand who I am beneath the power and wealth."
"A mother who lost her child," I said softly.
"Yes." The simple acknowledgment carried volumes of pain. "A woman who built an empire, then watched it become meaningless in an instant when her daughter's heart stopped beating."
She stepped into Sophia's room, beckoning me to follow. This time the invitation was deliberate, conscious. She moved to the closet, sliding open the door to reveal clothing still hanging neatly, designer dresses sweatshirts.
"She was taller than you," Victoria observed. "More athletic build. Preferred blues and greens to the warm tone that suit your coloring."
From a high shelf, she removed a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-
pearl. "Sophia's jewelry. Things she cherished, mostly for sentimental
rather than monetary value."
She opened the box, revealing an eclectic collection, some fine pieces but also quirky earrings, friendship bracelets, the kind of personal treasures that told a life's story.
Victoria selected something from the box, a delicate silver bracelet with a single charm, a tiny chess piece. A knight.
"Her favorite piece," Victoria explained. "She said knights were the most interesting because they move differently than everything else on the board. Unconventional. Less direct but sometimes more effective." She held out the bracelet to me. "She would want you to have this."
The gesture stunned me, Victoria offering
something that had belonged to Sophia, inviting me to carry a piece of her daughter's memory.
"I couldn't possibly."
"You can," Victoria interrupted firmly. "And you will. Not because you're replacing her, no one could. But because you're continuing something she valued, the courage to make in unexpected ways across the bo Victoria stopped walking, turning to face me fully in the grand hallway. Afternoon sun streamed through tall windows, highlighting the silver in her hair, the fine lines around her eyes, signs of humanity often obscured by her powerful presence.
"What I see," she said carefully, "is someone finding her own path while carrying meaningful symbols from those who came before. Not a replacement for my daughter. Not merely a vehicle for revenge. But a yo She touched the phoenix pendant at my throat lightly, then the knight charm on my wrist. "These are reminders, not definitions. You'll forge your own symbols in time."
As we continued walking, side by side through the mansion that had become my home, I felt a subtle but significant change in our relationship. For the first time, Victoria had allowed me to see beyond her caref And for the first time, I wondered if revenge alone would satisfy either of us. If perhaps something more complex, more healing might lie beyond the destruction we'd planned for those who had wounded us.
Chapter 22
Chapter 22
ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW
The shoe sat on Detective Ramirez's desk between us. A woman's size seven pump, once black, now gray-
green from three months underwater. The heel had broken off, but the designer's red sole remained visible. Louboutin. Unmistakably Camille's.
"Is this your sister's shoe, Ms. Lewis?" Detective Ramirez asked, his tired eyes watching my reaction carefully.
I reached for it with trembling fingers, a calculated tremord practiced that morning. "Yes," I whispered, breaking on cue. "She wore these the last time I saw her. A gift from our parents for her birthday." The lie slid out smoothly. In truth, I'd given Camille those shoes when she
landed her first job, playing the generous big sister while privately mocking her pathetic excitement over my hand-
me-downs.
"Does seeing this personal item bring up any new thoughts about your sister's state of mind before her disappearance?"
An Interesting question. Not "accident" or "drowning," but "disappearance." The detective's word choice revealed his lingering doubts.
"Your parents mentioned Camille kept journals," he continued. "Have you had a chance to read them?"
So Mom had spoken to the police about the journals. This was worse than I thought. voice
"I... I couldn't bear to read them," I said, looking away as if overcome. "Too painful. Mom mentioned she found some, but she's been very private about their contents." "And your relationship with Mr. Rodriguez? Your sister's ex-husband?"
"Stefan and I have found comfort in our shared grief," I said carefully. "We were friends before he and Camille dated. After a respectful period of mourning, we've... reconnected."
After leaving the station, I called Martin Greene, the family's trusted fixer. "I need everything you can get on Detective Ramirez. And I need to know exactly what my mother told the police about Camille's journal Then I headed to my parents' house. Mom was at her weekly therapy appointment, an engagement I'd encouraged to keep her sedated with grief counseling and
antidepressants.
The house was quiet when I arrived. I moved through Camille's room methodically, checking obvious hiding places. Nothing. The floorboard Mom had mentioned yielded nothing but an empty space. Mom's private sitting room, then. The small sunlit space where she spent hours alone. On her writing desk sat a mahogany box with a brass lock.
"Looking for something?"
Mom's voice from the doorway froze me in place. Sh
months.
stood watching me, more sober and alert than I'd seen in
"Mon," I said, forcing warmth into my voice. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
She moved to the box, unlocked it, and withdrew a journal. September 14th, ten years ago: 'Rose told Jason I stuffed ny bra before the dance. Now he won't talk to me. She says she was just joking, but she sm
My mind raced back. Jason Parker, Camille's first crush. I'd spent weeks helping her get his attention, only to whisper that carefully crafted lie at precisely the right moment.
"Teenage drama,” I said dismissively. "Camille was always sensitive."
Mom took out another journal. "April 2nd, eight years ago Got my Stanford acceptance today. Rose says it's probably a mistake. Now I can't stop worrying they'll realize they didn't mean to accept
me."
"I was trying to protect her from disappointment," I protested. "Stanford is highly competitive."
Mom slammed the journal shut. "You know what happened next? She called the admissions office to 'confirm' they wanted her. They thought she was having a mental health crisis. When we decided she wasn't Time for the nuclear option.
Mom," I whispered, "I didn't want to tell you this, but..: Camille had problems none of us understood. The last time we spoke, she said things that frightened me."
"What things?"
"She talked about hearing voices sometimes. About feeling watched" The lies flowed smoothly, tailored to match symptoms I knew Mom feared. Her own mother had suffered from paranoid delusions. "That's not possible," Mom said, but doubt had crept into her voice.
"Would she write about it if she was hiding it? Mom, I've been carrying this guilt for months, wondering if I should have told someone. If I could have prevented what happened."
"When her car went into the river," I continued softly, "I wondered if... if it wasn't an accident. If maybe the voices told her to do
it."
Mom sank into her chair, face ashen. "I should have known A mother should know when
her
child is suffering." "You couldn't have known," I soothed, watching my carefully crafted lies take root. "Camille was good at hiding things."
"I need to tell your father. And the detective."
"Are you sure that's wise?" I asked gently. "Camille wanted this kept private. And mental health stigma is still so prevalent."
"Perhaps wait," I suggested. "Read through the journals again, looking for signs you might have missed. Let me help you," I offered, reaching for the box. "Two sets of eyes might catch what one misses." She hesitated only briefly before nodding. The box of journals, the evidence I'd been desperate to secure, was now being handed to me willingly.
When I left an hour later, Mom looked lighter somehow. The poison of suspicion had been drained, replaced with a new narrative that absolved her of responsibility while redirecting her focus from me to Camille In the car, I immediately texted Martin: *Cancel the Ramic investigation. Situation contained.
Looking at the mahogany box beside me, I felt
a surge of satisfaction. By tonight, any evidence of my careful dismantling of Camille's life would be ashes. And the official narrative would shift subtly, not an accident, not murder, but a troubled young woman's Perfect Rose, the devoted sister, carrying her tragic secret protect her family's peace of —
practically wrote itself. Mental illness was such a convenient explanation for inconvenient truths. Camille's real voice had been silenced forever in that river. Now I would ensure that even her written words told t
Chapter 23
Chapter 23
CAMILLE'S POINT OF VIEW
The scream ripped from my throat before I was fully awake, my body jackknifing upright in bed. Sweat soaked through my silk nightgown, heart hammering against my ribs like it might break through. For a mom
Rose's face,
smiling as I drowned. Stefan watching from the shore, doing nothing. Their fingers intertwined as they witnessed my death, as casual as if they were watching a sunset.
"Ms. Kane?" A knock at my bedroom door. "Do you need assistance?"
The night guard. New guy. Torres or Torrez. I couldn't remember his name. Victoria rotated security personnel regularly, another layer of protection in her perfectly orchestrated world.
"I'm fine." I called back, voice steadier than I felt. "Just a dream."
"Yes, ma'am. Dr. Reed has been notified as per protocol."
Of course she had. Everything in Victoria's mansion was monitored, measured, reported. Privacy was a luxury I'd surrendered along with my old identity. I checked the clock 3:17 AM. Another night ruined by memories that refused to stay buried.
Six months of training. Six months of becoming someone new. Six months of Victoria's relentless program to transform me from victim to avenger. And still, my subconscious betrayed me, dragging me back into My phone lit up with a text: My office. 15 minutes. -Dr. Reed*
No sympathy. No option to reschedule. Just a command thinly disguised as a message. Typical of Victoria's handpicked psychologist.
I shuffled to my bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror had changed dramatically since Victoria had found me, cheekbones sharper from the surgical refinements, hair styled in an eyes harder from months of combat training. But in the hours after a nightmare, I still saw traces of the old. Camille beneath the carefully crafted exterior. Vulnerable. Afraid. Weak.
Dr. Reed would not approve.
Hero
office looked exactly as it always did, clinically organized, dimly lit, with two leather chairs facing each other across a glass table. No couch. No friendly plants of personal photos to soften the atmosphere. Dr. R surfaces matched her approach, precise, unforgiving, designed to cut through emotional defenses.
"Same dream?" she asked, silver-
streaked dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes sharp as they assessed my disheveled state. Al fifty-
something, she had the toned physique of someone half her age and the penetrating Paze of someone who regularly dissected minds for sport.
"Yes" I sank into the leather chair, the cool surface a stark contrast to my overheated skin. "I'm in the car, Water rising Pose and Stefan watching from the bridge, smiling the door's jammed. I scream for help, bu "Any variations from previous instances?"
"Rose was wearing my wedding dress this time." The detail had twisted like a knife in my gut, even in sleep..
Dr. Reed made a note on her tablet. "Six months of nightmares. Who told you stopping them was the goal?"
"Isn't that what therapy is for? Healing trauma?"
"Conventional therapy, yes. But you're not receiving conventional therapy, Camille. You're receiving specialized psychological conditioning designed for Victoria Kane's specific objectives."
"Which are?"
"To weaponize your trauma rather than heal it. Your pain is power if you control it instead of letting it control you. Do you think Victoria became who she is by processing her grief in healthy ways? By moving on The bluntness hit me like a physical blow. She moved to a cabinet, retrieving a virtual reality headset. State-
of-the-art, probably custom-made. Nothing but the best in Victoria's world.
"Put this on," she instructed. "I think you're ready for immersion therapy. Time to control the outcome of your nightmare."
My hands trembled as I took the headset. "You want me
to relive drowning? Voluntarily?"
"I want you to finish what your subconscious starts every night. You wake up at the moment of drowning. I want you to see what happens after."
The simulation was terrifyingly real, the car interior, the rising water, Rose and Stefan watching from above. Initially, panic seized me, the memory of that night too vivid, too raw. But something shifted inside me through my terror. Hot, clarifying rage.
The water stopped rising. Began to recede. In my mind, I pushed against the car door. It opened. Not possible in reality, not with water pressure, but this wasn't reality. This was my mind, my rules. I stepped out
I emerged from the river like an avenging angel, dressed in a tailored power suit, hair perfectly styled, makeup Пlawless, Rose's smile faltered as I stood on the water's surface. When I raised my hand, the bridg
"Please!" Dream-
Rose cried out as she fell, reaching toward me. “Camille, help us!"
I watched, unmoved, as they plunged into the dark water. Dream-
Stefan tried to swim toward the shore, abandoning Rose to save himself. Typical. Even in my imagination, he was a coward.
"How did it feel?" Dr. Reed asked when I removed the headset, hands shaking.
"Good," I admitted, shame and satisfaction warring inside the. "It felt good"
"Then why are you crying?"
I touched my cheek, surprised to find it wet. "Because the person who enjoyed that isn't who I used
to be."
"No," she agreed. "She's who you're becoming. Who you need to be."
She pulled out a manila folder filled with surveillance photos-
Rose and Stefan together
over the past months. At restaurants. Shopping. Entering his apartment. Their happiness documented in cruel detall. One shot showed them at a jewelry store I recognized, another at the restaurant I'd always w "Study your enemy's happiness," Dr. Reed said coolly. "It'what you'll take from them first."
I forced myself to look at every photo. Their casual intimacy. The way his hand rested at the small of her back. Her head tilted toward him in laughter. The tender expression on his face as he brushed hair from h "What do you feel?" she asked.
"Humiliation," I whispered, the truth finally breaking free. "That everyone can see I was just the placeholder. The practice wife before he got the
one he really wanted. I knew, you know. Even before the divorce papers. Before I found evidence. A part of me always knew Rose was the one Stefan truly wanted."
"And beneath that?"
"I stayed because I couldn't bear to admit Rose had won again. That even my marriage was just another competition she'd bested me in without even trying" The bitterness coated my words. "I thought if I tried "But he never did," Dr. Reed said simply.
"No. He only married me because he couldn't have her. I was the consolation prize. The easier option. The one who would say yes when Rose initially said no."
"The nightmares persist because you're still seeing yourself as their victim. Even in your dreams, they stand above while you drown below. The VR session showed progress, you reversed the positions. But you At the door, I paused, struck by a sudden curiosity. "What truth were you hiding? When you helped Victoria after Sophia died?"
For the first time, Dr. Reed's clinical mask slipped. "I was engaged to Victoria's husband before she met him. He chose her instead. I introduced them. Watched their
perfect life from the periphery. Was the first person Victoria called when the Prestons murdered Sophia."
The confession stunned me. This cold, clinical woman had her own history of being second choice. Had watched from the sidelines as someone else lived the life that might have been hers. "Does she know you told me this?"
"Victoria knows everything that happens in these sessions. Her gaze was steady, penetrating. “Because you're ready to understand that the path forward isn't about what was taken from you. It's about what you With that, she closed her office door, leaving me alone in the dimly lit hallway, clutching the photos of my sister's stolen happiness against my chest like a shield. Each image a reminder of what they'd taken from
Chapter 24
Chapter 24
ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW
The law office of Berkman, Wade, and Associates smelled of leather, money, and superiority. I adjusted my black dress and studied the others in the conference room. Mom dabbed at her eyes with a monogran All of us performing our assigned roles. The grieving family. The heartbroken ex-
husband. A perfect tableau of loss.
And why wouldn't we? Camille was dead. I knew that for certain. The men I'd hired hadn't just scared her as originally planned, they'd gone further, forcing her car off that bridge, watching it sink into the dark wa Martin Greene entered, carrying a leather portfolio. Dad's longtime lawyer looked appropriately grave as he took a Scal
"Thank you all for coming." he said. "With the court having legally declared Camille deceased in absentia, we can now proceed with her last will and testament."
"Is this really necessary?" Mom asked, voice wavering. "It's only been six months.”
"In cases of drowning where no body is
recovered, the court can grant a death certificate after reasonable search efforts have concluded," Martin explained.
"As Camille had significant independent assets that require disposition, the judge approved the declaration last week."
I kept my expression neutral, though my mind raced. Independent assets? What independent assets?
“།
wasn't aware my sister had estate planning," I said, injecting just the right note of confusion.
twenty-fifths
Martin opened his portfolio. "Camille updated her will last year, shortly after her As you may recall, that was when she received her inheritance from her grandfather."
My blood froze. Grandfather Lewis. Dad's father. The crusty old man who had doted on Camille, his only biological grandchild, while largely ignoring me.
"What inheritance?" I asked
sharply, then immediately softened my tone. "I mean, she never mentioned receiving anything substantial,"
Dad finally looked up. "My father left Camille a portion of his estate when she
turned twenty-five. It was private, between them."
"How large a portion?" The question escaped before I could temper it.
Martin cleared his throat. “Mr. Lewis Senior established a trust for Camille valued at approximately thirty million dollars, along with the Cedar Hill estate."
The room spun around me. Thirty million dollars. Plus a mansion on twenty acres of prime land. And she had never said a word.
"That's impossible," I whispered "I would have known."
"Camille wanted it kept quiet," Dad said. "She said money changes
how people see you."
Martin removed a document from his portfolio. "This is the last will and testament of Camille Elizabeth Lewis, revised and signed six months before her passing"
I leaned forward. Whatever secret fortune she'd hidden, it would surely come to her family now. To me, her only sister.
"To my parents, Richard and Margaret Lewis, I leave my collection of family photographs and my gratitude for the life they gave me."
Martin paused, glancing at my parents. Dad nodded stiffly. Mom's crying grew louder.
"To my sister, Rose Lewis, I leave my journal collection, in hopes she may come to understand me better in death than she did in life."
The journals. The ones I'd already taken and altered. A chill ran down my spine.
"To my former husband, Stefan Rodriguez, I return the engagement ring that belonged to his grandmother, with the hope that next time he gives it, it will be with honesty and true devotion." Stefan flinched visibly. The ring had been a
source of pride, a family heirloom that supposedly symbolized his commitment.
"As to the remainder of my estate, including all financial assets, investment accounts, personal property not specifically mentioned, the Cedar Hill estate, and the entire balance of the trust established by my gra Here it was. The thirty million dollars and luxury estate that would surely be distributed among us.
One hundred percent of said assets shall be donated to the Lighthouse Foundation for Abused and Abandoned Children, to establish the Camille Lewis Memorial Fund for the education and support of girls in th The silence that followed was absolute. Even Mom's crying stopped abruptly.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice unnaturally high, "but could you repeat that?"
Martin glanced up. "The entirety of Camille's estate, after specific bequests, is to be donated to the Lighthouse Foundation."
"That's not possible." The words burst from me. "There must be some mistake."
"There's no mistake, Ms. Lewis. The will is quite clear and legally binding."
"But..." I struggled to maintain composure. "That's thirty million dollars and a prime piece of real estate. Going to complete strangers. While her family gets
nothing but photographs and... and journals?"
Martin withdrew an envelope. "She also left a letter to be read at this time, explaining her decision
Dad nodded his permission, his expression unreadable.
Martin broke the seal on the envelope and unfolded the letter within.
"To my family," he read. "If you're hearing this, then I am gone, and you are now learning something I kept from all of you, that Grandfather left me a substantial inheritance when I turned twenty-
five. I chose not to share this information, partly because I was still deciding how best to use such an unexpected blessing, but mostly because I needed to understand its power without influence from others."" I dug my fingernails into my palmus. Even in presumed death, Camille was judging us,
"The money gave me
freedom I never expected to have. Frodom to consider who I really was outside of other people's expectations and manipulations. Freedom to make choices based on my own values rather than seeking approv My gaze flicked to Stefan, who looked physically ill. Had he known about the money when he signed those divorce papers?
"I have chosen to direct my inheritance to help girls who lack the family support structure I was fortunate enough to have. The Lighthouse Foundation specifically assists young women transitioning from foster c my parents, thank you for the security and opportunities you provided. This decision isn't a rejection of you, but rather an attempt to extend similar advantages to those without your resources."
Dad's jaw tightened. Mom resumed her quiet crying
“To Stefan, I've returned your grandmother's ring not out of
bitterness, but because family legacies should continue with true commitment.""
"And
to Rose, my sister by choice if not by blood, I leave my journals with hope rather than malice. In them, you'll find the unfiltered thoughts of someone who spent years trying to understand you, to love you despite
me to be
The blood drained from my face. *Sister by choice if not by blood.* A pointed reminder of my adopted status.
"I harbor no illusions that my modest fortune could
have enhanced the lives of my already privileged family, but I believe it can transform the futures of dozens of young women who start with nothing. In this way, perhaps my departure might create meaning bey Martin folded the letter. "It's signed, 'With complicated love, Camille.""
The silence felt charged with my unspoken rage. Thirty million
dollars. Gone. To strangers. To foster girls who would never appreciate it properly.
"This can't be legal," I finally said. "She clearly wasn't in her right mind."
Martin raised
an eyebrow. "The will was properly executed with witnesses who attested
to her mental competence. The charitable intent is quite clear and legally sound."
But we're her family," I insisted, looking to my parents for support. "Doesn't that count for anything?"
"Camille had every legal right to dispose of her property as she wished," Martin replied.
"We could
contest it," I suggested, turning to Dad. "Argue undue influence or something."
Dad finally spoke, his voice tired. "Rose, enough. Camille made her choice. We will respect it."
But Dad..."
"I said enough. My daughter is dead. I won't dishonor her memory by fighting over money none of us need." Mom reached for his hand. "Richard is right. This is what Camille wanted. Perhaps it will help us find
her loss."
I stared at them in disbelief. Were they seriously accepting is?
"Stefan?" I turned to him, seeking an ally. "Don't you have anything to say?"
He looked up slowly. "What is there to say? Camille made her wishes clear." He gave a bitter laugh. "At least I get the
ring back. Small comfort."
Martin cleared his throat. The transfer process has already begun. The Lighthouse Foundation has been notified, though the public announcement will wait until the family has had time to process this privately." As we prepared to leave, I noticed Dr. Elena Reyes, director of the Lighthouse Foundation, waiting in
the reception
area
"I won't intrude on your family's grief," she said softly, "I only wanted
to express how Camille's generosity will change lives. The girls in our program face nearly impossible odds, and this gift will provide opportunities they could never have imagined."
Mom stepped forward, taking the woman's hands in hers. "Would you tell me about your program sometime? I'd like to know more about what Camille was supporting"
In the elevator, I maintained my composure with effort. "I still think we should consider contesting the will. For Camille's sake. She clearly wasn't thinking clearly."
Dad's expression hardened. "Drop it, Rose. The money and property were never yours to begin with. Camille made her choice, and we will honor it."
"But-
"I said drop it. I've lost my daughter. I won't lose my integrity too by fighting over her wishes."
The elevator doors opened, ending the conversation.
I declined the offer to ride home with my parents. In my own car, with the privacy screen raised, I finally let my mask slip, slamming my fist against the leather seat.
Thirty million dollars and the
Cedar Hill estate. The amounts kept repeating in my mind like a taunt. Assets Camille had hidden from me. Wealth that should have been mine, Money now flowing to unwashed, uncultured foster brats who wo
I, who had survived the system through cunning and determination. I, who had clawed my way into the Lewis family through careful study and perfect performance. I, who had spent fourteen years proving my
And now, the final insult, Camille's money going to help girls from the very background I'd fought so desperately to escape and conceal.
The journals sat beside me, a mocking reminder of her final message. *In hope rather than malice. As if she'd somehow known I would take
them. As if she'd anticipated my every move.
But she couldn't have. The real Camille had been naive, trusting, easily manipulated. This will had likely been written in a moment of misguided altruism, not calculated revenge.
Unless....
What if Camille had
updated her will after discovering I and Stefan's affair before her death? After beginning to see through
my manipulations?
What if the money had originally been intended for me, and she'd changed her mind upon discovering my betraval?
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Chapter 25
Chapter 25
ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW
I slammed my apartment door so hard the walls shook. The sound echoed through the empty space, matching the thunder in my heart. My hands shook as I poured myself a drink, spilling expensive whiskey or "Damn you, Camille," I whispered, then screamed it: "DAMN YOU!"
The crystal glass flew from my hand,
shattering against the wall in a spray of amber liquid and broken dreams. Thirty million dollars. The Cedar Hill estate. All of it gone to those worthless foster kids.
My legs gave out and I slid to the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess I'd made. Just like my life -
everything perfect on the surface, chaos underneath. And now Camille, sweet, stupid Camille, had managed to ruin everything even from the grave.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" I spoke to
the empty air, imagining her ghost watching me fall apart. Little Miss Perfect with her secret fortune. Did you laugh about it? Did you enjoy knowing you had something I didn't?"
I grabbed another glass, hurled it across the room. The crash brought a sick satisfaction.
"All those years I spent making you
feel small," I continued, stalking through my perfect apartment like a caged animal. "Making you doubt yourself. Making you think you weren't enough. And all along you were sitting on millions!" My reflection caught my eye -
designer dress, perfect makeup, not a hair out of place even in my rage. The mask I'd worn for so long it had become my face. With a cry of pure fury, I grabbed a decorative vase and smashed the
mirror.
The glass splintered, creating a dozen fractured versions
of my face. Each one a different mask I'd worn. The perfect daughter. The loving sister. The secret lover. The hidden survivor of the foster system.
"You knew, didn't you?" I accused my broken reflection. "That's why you left the money to them. You figured out what I really was. Where I really came from."
The thought sent me into a fresh frenzy. I tore through the apartment like a hurricane, destroying everything in my path. Ripped designer clothes from their hangers. Overturned furniture, Shredded the fancy art "I EARNED THIS!" I screamed, throwing a chair through my floor-to-
ceiling windows. The glass cracked but didn't break - safety-
rated, of course. Even my destruction had limits. "I clawed my way out of nothing! I made myself perfect! I deserved that money more than any of them!"
My hands found a framed photo me and Camille at my fashion show launch. Her arm around my waist, both of us sailing. Both of us lying. I studied her face in the picture searching for signs she'd known her de
"I didn't
mean for them to kill you," I whispered to her frozen smile. "Just scare you. Make you run away. Sign those divorce papers. But you had to be stubborn, didn't you? Had to fight back. And now look what happen The Tome joined the pile of broken glass on my imported marble floors. Thousands of dollars in destroyed luxury items scattered around me like fallen soldiers in iny private war.
I found myself in my home office, yanking open drawers until I found what I wanted the stack of Camille's journals. The ones I'd stolen and doctored after her "death, planting false entries about her depression a
Chapter 25
"To Rose, my sister by choice if not by blood," I mimicked her words from the will reading. "I leave with hope rather than malice.' Hope for what, Camille? Hope I'd confess? Hope I'd feel guilty? journals
1 flipped through the pages I'd so carefully forged, my handwriting a perfect match for hers. So many hours spent practicing her style, just like I'd spent years practicing being the perfect daughter, the perfect sis "You don't know what it's like," I told the journals, my voice breaking. "To have nothing. To be nothing. To know that one wrong move means going back to that place."
The memory o of the foster home rose up the smell of too many unwashed bodies, the sound of crying in the night, the constant fear of being sent somewhere worse. I'dpromised myself I'd never go back. I'd do "I did what I had to do," I said, but the words sounded hollow even to me. "I earned my place here. Those other girls, they're weak. They'll never appreciate what you gave them. They'll waste it, just like they wa But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. I'd been one of those girls once. Before I learned to hide my past. Before I convinced the Lewis family to adopt me. Before I made myself into someone who belonged i My rage drained suddenly, leaving me empty. I looked around at my ruined apartment –
broken glass everywhere, furniture overturned, clothes scattered like fallen leaves. The perfect image destroyed, just like my perfect plan. "You win, Camille," I whispered, slumping against the wall “Even in dea The journals fell from my limp fingers, pages spilling across the floor. My careful forgeries, my attempted manipulations of the truth, all useless now. The money was gone. The estate was gone. Everything I'd thought I deserved, given to the very people I'd spent my life trying to forget.
But something else nagged at me, a worry I couldn't shake Camille had been smarter than I'd given her credit for. She'd hidden her inheritance, updated her will, left those pointed messages in the legal docume The thought chilled me. I'd underestimated her before, thought her too naive to suspect my affair with Stefan, too trusting to fight back when I sent those men after her. I'd been wrong then. Could I be wrong no My phone buzzed-
a text from Stefan: *We need to talk about what happened today.*
1 ignored it. Stefan was a loose end I'd deal with later. Right now, I needed to think. To plan. To figure out if Camille had left any other surprises waiting to explode in my carefully constructed life.
"This isn't over," I told the empty apartment, my voice steady again. "You might have won this round, sister dear, but I'm not finished yet. I've come too far, fought too hard, to let your ghost destroy everything I'v I stood up, brushing glass from my dress. Time to call my cleaning service, erase the evidence of my breakdown. Time to put the mask back on, be perfect Rose again. But first...
1 gathered the scattered journal pages, struck a match, and watched them burn in my marble sink. No evidence. No loose ends. No wealness.
"Goodbye, Camille," 1 wispered as the flames consumed my forged confessions. "Thanks for teaching me one last lesson never underestimate the dead."
As I watched the ashes swirl down the drain, a new thought struck me. If Camille had been clever enough to hide her millions, what else might she have hidden? What other secrets had my perfect, naive sister
The question haunted me as I began cleaning up the mess I made. Each piece of broken glass felt like a fragment of my carefully constructed world, crumbling beneath the weight of Camille's final revenge. And somewhere, in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered: What if she isn't really dead at all?