SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

Chapter 18

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.

between silent glaring and pointed barbs, Dad attempting desperately to Maintain normal conversation, me navigating the minefield

Mom said as Helen

cup halfway

them since childhood. Hidden in that loose floorboard in her closet, though she thought I didn't know." Mom's

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

it appropriate

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

our dinner plans at the last minute. Said she wasn't feeling well. I assumed she

them." Mom's voice was dangerously quiet. "But her journal entry that day says she was excited about your

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

slightly "I'm simply a mother with questions about her daughter's death. Questions

dining room, her footsteps unsteady on

through his thinning hair. "Grief makes people irrational. She'll

had been planted, and now it was growing, fed by newspaper articles and missing bodies and mysterious

to drop the mask, anxiety crawling

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

that didn't work? A chill ran through me, not fear, but cold determination. When I faced myself

a new narrative.

mother, unable to accept

daughter, became obsessed with

own mother if necessary. I'd do whatever it took to protect what I'd

I'd visit Mom, see if I could locate

in my plans, would continue playing his part, the grieving

mourning period. He had no idea how I'd orchestrated everything,

of their relationship to its tragic

Men like Stefan were

them to believe. So desperate to be

manipulations, her documentation of our conflicts, her growing suspicions about my intentions, they could provide