Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Bel AirThe boardroom temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Camila stared at the paper in her hands, the bold black ink of the signature burning into her retinas. Clara Vance. The name sounded like a phantom bell tolling from the bottom of the sea.
Edwin had never mentioned a first wife. During all five years of their marriage, whenever past relationships were brought up, Edwin had laughed it off as youthful dating in London, swearing on his mother’s grave that Camila was his first and only legal bride.
“Mr. Wayne,” Camila said, her voice remarkably steady despite the sudden roaring in her ears. “Explain this.”
Mr. Wayne leaned over the table, adjusting his spectacles as his eyes scanned the legal brief. As he read further down the page, color completely drained from his face—a rare reaction for a man who had weathered financial panics and corporate espionage.
“This... this is impossible,” Mr. Wayne muttered, tracing a line of embossed seals at the bottom of the document. “The Lazarus Foundation is a dormant trust registered in the British Virgin Islands. It hasn’t transacted a single dollar in over a decade. But the signature... the notary seal... it’s authentic. George Stanford signed this codicil yesterday afternoon while he was recovering from his initial mild angina attack.”
“My father knew?” Camila whispered, her chest tightening. “He knew Edwin was married before?”
“More than that,” Mr. Wayne said grimly, looking up to meet her eyes. “If this codicil is legally binding, it means Edwin committed bigamy when he married you in Geneva five years ago. And under California probate law, if a marriage is legally void due to a prior existing union, the surviving spouse’s inheritance rights... dissolve.”
Across the table, Robert Vance—who had been shrinking back into his chair moments earlier—suddenly sat up straight, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
“Well, well, well,” Robert sneered, finding his voice again. “It turns out the brilliant little heiress wasn't quite as smart as she thought. You’re not the legal widow, Camila. You’re just a mistress who got played by a professional con man and his very legal wife.”
Before Robert could finish his sentence, the boardroom doors swung open once more.
This time, there was no shouting, no frantic paralegals.
A woman walked in.
She was tall, striking, with sharp cheekbones, a cascading wave of dark chestnut hair, and piercing green eyes that commanded the entire room instantly. She wore a tailored charcoal trench coat, designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head, and an expression of absolute, chilling coldness.
Behind her walked two armed private security guards and a sleek, intimidating legal counsel team.
“Good morning, everyone,” the woman said, her voice smooth, articulate, and carrying a distinct British accent. “I apologize for crashing your little board meeting. But seeing as my husband and I still own the roof over your heads, I figured I had a right to introduce myself.”
Camila stood up slowly from her chair, her hands gripping the edge of the glass table.
“Who are you?” Camila demanded, her voice cutting through the silence like a razor.
The woman stopped ten feet from the head of the table, pulled off her sunglasses, and smiled—a cold, humorless smile that bore an unsettling resemblance to Edwin’s favorite smirk.
“Allow me to reintroduce myself,” the woman said smoothly, stepping forward. “I am Clara Vance. The lawful, wedded wife of Edwin Vance. And as of this morning, the rightful owner of the Bel Air estate, fifty percent of George Stanford’s private trust, and every single asset Edwin acquired during our... arrangement.”
The room erupted into murmurs.
Robert Vance slammed his hand on the table, laughing triumphantly. “I told you! The house, the trusts, the fortune—it all reverts back to the family through Clara! Camila, you’re homeless, penniless, and out of a job!”
Camila didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She simply looked at Clara, taking in the expensive designer bag, the tailored coat, the haughty posture of a woman who thought she had just won the jackpot.
“You think you won,” Camila said quietly, walking around the glass table until she was standing just inches away from Clara.
“I didn't think, darling,” Clara purred, tilting her chin up. “I calculated. Edwin might be a reckless idiot who got caught with his hand in the corporate cookie jar, but he and I signed a watertight postnuptial agreement six years ago in London. Everything he stole, everything he inherited, everything your dear, dead father left behind—it funnels straight into my hands through the Lazarus Foundation.”
Camila stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, a faint, terrifying smile touched her lips.
“You really think my father was stupid enough to leave a loophole like that, Clara?” Camila asked softly.
Clara’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you talking about?”
Camila reached into her blazer pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the screen twice.
“Mr. Wayne, please play Audio Log Beta-9.”
Mr. Wayne tapped his tablet. A second later, the familiar, raspy voice of George Stanford filled the boardroom—not from a hospital bed this time, but from a recording made in his private study three weeks before his death.
“Clara Vance,” George’s voice echoed through the speakers, steady and clear. “If you’re listening to this, it means you finally crawled out from your London hole thinking you could inherit the fruits of my daughter’s suffering. You and Edwin thought you were so clever playing the bigamy card. But you forgot one simple rule of finance, my dear: A trap is only sprung when the bait is completely swallowed.”
Clara’s face went instantly pale.
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“What... what is this?” Clara hissed, stepping back.
And then, the recording continued with a final, devastating sentence that made the entire boardroom hold its breath.
