Chapter 4 - THE MATRIARCH’S GREED
“Twins?” Victoria whispered, the word barely making it past her lips.
She staggered backward, clutching Amelia to her chest as if someone might try to snatch the girl away again. Daniel caught his wife’s elbow, his own face a mask of utter shock. He stared at Amelia, then slowly turned his head to look at Lily.
Now that they were standing in the same room, under the same chandelier, it was impossible to unsee.
Beneath the dirt, the malnutrition, and the cheap clothes, Lily shared the exact same slope of her nose as Amelia. They had the same almond-shaped eyes. The same natural curl to their hair, though Lily’s was dark with grime and Amelia’s shone like spun gold.
They were mirror images, separated by a pane of glass called wealth.
“How?” Daniel demanded, whirling on Dr. Evans. “How could we not know she was carrying twins? We had ultrasounds. We had the best prenatal care in the world!”
“Beatrice made sure of it,” Dr. Evans confessed, keeping his eyes on the marble floor. “Your mother paid off the ultrasound technicians. She paid me. Whenever we saw the second heartbeat, we were ordered to delete the image from the screen before you saw it.”
“Why?!” Daniel roared, his voice cracking with agony. “Why go through all of this?! Why hide one of my daughters and let me keep the other?”
Before Dr. Evans could answer, Lily stepped forward.
Her muddy sneakers left dark prints on the pristine floor, but she didn’t care. She unzipped the front pocket of her broken backpack and pulled out a thick stack of envelopes wrapped in twine.
“Because of my grandfather,” Lily said quietly.
Daniel blinked. “My father?”
Lily nodded. She untied the twine, letting the heavy stack of envelopes fall open in her hands. They were weathered, stained with coffee rings and dirt.
“Martha—the woman who raised me—she tried to reach out to you,” Lily explained, her voice remarkably steady for a twelve-year-old who had lived a lifetime of suffering. “She wrote to you every month for the first five years of my life. She wanted to give me back. She felt too guilty.”
“I never got a single letter,” Daniel said, his voice breaking. He reached out with a trembling hand, taking the top envelope from Lily. The address was written in a frantic, shaky script. Addressed to him.
“I know,” Lily said, her eyes turning toward Beatrice, who was now backed against the mahogany railing, looking like a cornered snake. “She intercepted them. She burned most of them.”
Beatrice crossed her arms, trying to regain her composure. “That maid was trying to extort me. I was protecting you from a blackmailer.”
“No,” a deep, booming voice echoed from the back hallway.
Everyone turned.
It was Thomas, the Blackwood family’s head butler. He had served the family for forty years, long before Beatrice had even married into it. He walked with a stiff, formal posture, carrying a silver tray.
But there were no champagne glasses on this tray.
Sitting perfectly in the center was a single, half-burned envelope. Its edges were charred black, the paper brittle and fragile.
“Madam did not burn all of them, sir,” Thomas said, his usually stoic voice laced with deep disgust as he glared at Beatrice. “I found this one in the fireplace of her private study eleven years ago. I salvaged it before the flames could consume it. I have kept it hidden in my quarters ever since.”
Daniel took the charred envelope from the tray. “Why didn’t you bring this to me, Thomas?”
“Because, sir,” Thomas said, bowing his head apologetically, “it wasn’t written by the maid. And it wasn’t addressed to you.”
Daniel flipped the envelope over.
The handwriting on the front was sharp, elegant, and instantly recognizable.
It was his father’s handwriting. The late Richard Blackwood.
“My father wrote this?” Daniel asked, his chest tightening. “Who was it addressed to?”
“To his lawyer,” Thomas replied softly. “And it outlines exactly why Madam stole the child.”
Beatrice lunged forward, her claws bared. “Don’t read that! It’s a forgery! Richard was losing his mind in his final days!”
Daniel shoved his mother back effortlessly, his eyes scanning the charred, preserved letter.
As he read the words, the blood drained entirely from his face. His jaw tightened so hard it looked like it might shatter.
“He knew,” Daniel whispered, looking up at Victoria with haunted eyes. “My father knew Victoria was pregnant with twins. He found out before he died.”
“What does it say, Daniel?” Victoria pleaded, stepping closer.
Daniel’s hands shook as he read the final, unburned paragraph aloud.
“In the event of my death, knowing my wife Beatrice’s cruel nature, I hereby decree that the entirety of the Blackwood trust—all properties, accounts, and holdings—shall bypass my son Daniel, and be placed in a blind trust for the second-born twin. Should the child not claim it by midnight of her twelfth birthday, the estate will be liquidated and donated to charity. Beatrice gets nothing.”
The ballroom erupted in gasps.
It had never been about Victoria’s bloodline. It had never been about the birthmark.
It was about the money.
Beatrice had stolen the child so the inheritance couldn’t be claimed, allowing her to retain control of the estate as Daniel’s financial proxy.
“You stole my child,” Daniel said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper, “for a bank account.”
Beatrice threw her head back and let out a cold, sharp laugh. The mask was completely gone now. There was no pretending. Only the ruthless, greedy woman she truly was.
“Yes, I did!” Beatrice yelled, throwing her arms wide. “And it worked! Look at the clock, Daniel!”
Daniel looked up. The antique grandfather clock in the corner of the hall read 11:45 PM.
“It’s fifteen minutes to midnight,” Beatrice smiled wickedly, her eyes flashing with triumph as she looked at Lily. “The will requires the second-born child to present indisputable, legal proof of identity to the estate lawyers before her twelfth birthday ends. You have no DNA test. You have no legal birth certificate. And you have fifteen minutes.”
Beatrice let out a cruel cackle. “You lose, you little street rat. The money defaults to charity, and I still control the secondary assets.”
Lily didn’t cry. She didn’t run.
Instead, she calmly reached into her frayed, muddy jacket pocket.
“I don’t have a birth certificate,” Lily said quietly.
May you like
She pulled her hand out. Clutched in her small fingers was a heavy, tarnished silver baby rattle.
“But I have what Grandfather gave the maid to give to me, before he died.”
