Chapter 4 - The Midnight Confession
The chain lock rattled as Lily unhooked it, pushing the door wide enough for Clara to step inside. The contrast between the wealthy socialite and the cramped, peeling paint of Lily’s living room was jarring. Clara stood awkwardly in the center of the small space, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were freezing, though the apartment was comfortably warm.
"Make it quick," Lily said, keeping the heavy metal flashlight gripped firmly in her hand. "You had me fired twelve hours ago, and now you’re standing in my hallway at three in the morning. Talk."
Clara swallowed hard, her usual icy arrogance entirely stripped away. For the first time, Lily saw the human being beneath the designer clothes—someone running on pure adrenaline and terror.
"I didn't have a choice," Clara muttered, refusing to meet Lily’s eyes at first. She walked over to the small kitchen counter and rested her hands on the edge to steady herself. "If Mr. Henderson hadn't fired you, my uncle would have done much worse. You don't understand what kind of man my uncle Marcus is."
"Marcus?" Lily frowned, trying to recall the family tree she had only just discovered. "Who is Marcus?"
"Marcus Bellamy. Eleanor’s eldest son—my uncle," Clara said, turning to face her. "He runs the family foundation, the real estate empire, and the board of trustees. He controls everything. And he hates ghosts."
Lily crossed her arms, stepping closer. "My mother wasn't a ghost. She was his sister."
"She was supposed to be dead!" Clara blurted out, her voice rising before she quickly checked herself and lowered it to a frantic whisper. "For thirty-five years, everyone in that house believed Marianne died in the nursery fire. My grandfather died believing it. Grandmother has spent decades crying herself to sleep over a crib that turned to ash."
"And yet, looking at those newspaper clippings," Lily said coldly, walking over to the table and tapping the yellowed paper, "the police report explicitly stated they never found a body. How convenient for whoever stood to inherit everything."
Clara went completely pale. She stared at the clipping on the table, her breath hitching. "You found the archive file..."
"I found out that my mother lived thirty years of hell, struggling to pay rent and buying groceries with coins, while her family sat in a mansion on Crestwood Ridge," Lily fired back, her voice shaking with long-suppressed rage. "She died with nothing, Clara. While you wore diamond earrings and drove imported sports cars, my mother worked herself into an early grave. So don't come into my apartment at three in the morning asking for sympathy."
Clara flinched as if she had been physically struck. She closed her eyes for a long moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When she opened them, they were swimming with tears.
"You think I care about the money?" Clara whispered bitterly. "You think I like living in that gilded cage? Uncle Marcus runs that house like a prison camp. He decides who gets funded, who gets cut off, and who stays in line. Do you have any idea what he did when he found out Grandmother was slipping mentally? He started consolidating power. He rewrote the trust."
Lily narrowed her eyes. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Everything," Clara said, stepping forward, her voice desperate. "If you are legally proven to be Marianne’s daughter—which makes you Eleanor’s direct granddaughter—you aren't just a long-lost relative. Under the original Bellamy family charter, a direct bloodline heir takes precedence over all collateral branches. You don't just get a piece of the pie, Lily. You get controlling interest of the entire estate."
The room fell dead silent. The hum of the refrigerator sounded deafening in the tiny apartment.
Lily stared at Clara, the magnitude of those words washing over her. Control of the Bellamy empire. Billions in real estate, corporate assets, and generational wealth.
"I don't care about their money," Lily said flatly.
May you like
"Marcus does," Clara shot back instantly. "And that’s why you’re in mortal danger. Do you really think that fire thirty-five years ago was an accident?"
Lily’s blood ran cold. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, as Clara’s words hung in the air like a death sentence.
