Chapter 3 - The Girl in the Foyer
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The digital screen acted as a portal between two entirely different realities. On one side was the absolute, rustic silence of Blue Ridge—dark, grounding, and fiercely independent. On the other side was the glittering, sterile opulence of Willow Creek, bathed in the cold light of crystal chandeliers and shadowed by secrets that had festered for over a decade.
Clara flinched slightly at Ethan’s voice, her hands nervously clutching the strap of her worn canvas bag. She looked nothing like the high-society women Ethan usually surrounded himself with, nor did she resemble the glamorous actresses I used to share dressing rooms with. She looked young—barely twenty-two—with the fragile, porcelain delicacy of someone who had weathered too many storms without an umbrella.
—I told you not to call her, Clara whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she turned half-blindly toward the staircase where Ethan stood.
—She has a right to know who is sleeping in her bed, Clara, Ethan replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his amber drink. His eyes remained locked on the camera lens, fixing me with that familiar, piercing gaze that used to make me feel like I was the only person in the universe. Now, it felt like nothing more than the stare of a predator calculating the weight of its prey.
I didn't flinch. I didn't reach for the disconnect button. Instead, I leaned closer to the phone, letting the camera capture the utter lack of surprise on my face.
—You always were terrible at hospitality, Ethan, I said, my voice cutting through the digital static with crystal clarity. —Inviting a stray cat into the house before the ink on the separation papers is even dry? At least have the decency to change the sheets first. It's unhygienic.
Clara gasped softly, her cheeks flushing a deep, humiliated crimson. She lowered her head, shrinking into herself as if she wished the marble floor would open up and swallow her whole. For a fleeting second, a wave of genuine pity washed over me. I knew what it felt like to be young, desperate, and completely at the mercy of a man who promised the moon while holding a knife behind his back.
Ethan’s jaw tightened, the smooth facade cracking for a fraction of a second before he smoothed it over with a cold, mocking smile.
—You never could resist a sharp tongue, could you, Amelia? That’s why you always commanded the stage. But performances don't pay the bills in the real world. Clara isn't a stray. She’s... an investment in the future. Just like you used to be.
—An investment, I repeated, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle. —How quaint. Does she know about the depreciation value, Ethan? Or did you forget to mention that every empire built on stolen blueprints eventually collapses under its own weight?
Ethan’s eyes narrowed instantly. The casual, relaxed posture vanished, replaced by the rigid tension of a man whose armor had just been pierced in a vital spot. He set his glass down on the console table with a sharp clack that echoed loudly through the phone’s microphone.
—End the call, Clara, Ethan commanded, his voice dropping into that dark, authoritarian register he usually reserved for boardrooms.
Clara scrambled to obey, her fingers fumbling with the screen before the video feed abruptly cut to black, plunging my kitchen back into silence.
I stood motionless in the dark for a long time. Ethan’s reaction confirmed what Marcus and I had only just begun to suspect: the appearance of Julian Vance’s daughter in our home wasn't a coincidence, nor was it a simple affair. It was a panic move. Ethan knew the hostile takeover was coming. He knew my signature was the only thing standing between him and financial ruin. And by bringing Clara into the house, he was trying to send me a message—a twisted, psychological warning that he could replace everything I had sacrificed for, as if twelve years of blood, sweat, and tears were nothing more than a lease on a rental car.
My phone buzzed again. A text message from an unknown local number.
“You think you know everything, Amelia. But Julian Vance didn't drown in Maine. And the girl doesn't know who bought her father's soul.”
The message vanished three seconds later, auto-deleted by an encrypted messaging protocol.
I walked over to the window, sliding it open to let the crisp mountain air rush into the room. The scent of pine and damp earth filled my lungs, clearing away the claustrophobic residue of Ethan’s digital intrusion. If Julian Vance was alive—or if someone was using his ghost to terrify Ethan—then the game had just shifted from a bitter corporate divorce to something infinitely more dangerous.
My phone rang again. This time it was Marcus, his voice breathless and urgent, completely stripping away his usual calm demeanor.
—Amelia, you need to hear this. I pulled the adoption records for Clara Vance—or rather, Clara Vane, as her birth certificate reads. She wasn't put into the foster system by the state. She was placed under the direct guardianship of a shell corporation managed by a trust fund based in Zurich.
—Whose trust fund, Marcus? I asked, my hands gripping the windowsill tightly.
May you like
—Yours, Marcus said, the words hanging heavy in the cool night air. —The trust fund was set up twelve years ago, right after your first major film payout. And the primary beneficiary who authorized the monthly disbursements for her schooling, her housing, and her medical care... wasn't Ethan.
It was you.
