SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

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.noveldrama

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.