The afternoon sun bled into the skyline, painting long shadows across the marble floors of the Lancaster estate's private library. Clara stood there, fingertips grazing the spines of old leather-bound volumes, each one whispering of secrets and eras gone by. She hadn't planned on being here today—not exactly—but a call from the estate's long-serving caretaker, Mrs. Hollings, had led her to make the detour.
"There's something you should see, Miss Clara. It's about your mother," Mrs. Hollings had said, her voice trembling in a way that made Clara's pulse quicken.
Now, here she was, the faint scent of sandalwood and dust lingering in the air, her heels muffled against the plush Persian rug. This library had always felt like a shrine to her mother's presence—her favorite place in the estate, where she would disappear for hours with a cup of tea and a book. But Clara hadn't set foot here in years. Not since the day they told her her mother was gone.
Mrs. Hollings emerged from behind one of the massive oak shelves, clutching a small brass key in her wrinkled hands. Her silver hair was tied into a neat bun, but her sharp eyes were fixed on Clara with a mixture of urgency and guilt.
"I should have told you sooner," Mrs. Hollings said quietly, pressing the key into Clara's palm. "But your grandfather… he forbade me from saying a word. He thought it would protect you."
Clara's brow furrowed. "Protect me from what?"
Mrs. Hollings hesitated, glancing toward the far corner of the room. "From the truth. This key… it opens the hidden compartment in your mother's writing desk. And in it—you'll find her will."
Clara's breath hitched. "Her will? That's impossible. I was told she never made one."
"That's what they wanted you to believe." Mrs. Hollings' voice was barely a whisper now. "The version that was read to the family after she died… was a forgery."
The air seemed to grow colder around Clara, the quiet hum of the library clock pounding in her ears. "Who forged it?"
Mrs. Hollings looked away, her silence speaking volumes.
Clara swallowed her fury and moved toward the antique mahogany desk tucked into the corner. She remembered it vividly—how her mother would sit there, writing letters with her favorite fountain pen, the soft scratch of ink on paper. Clara knelt, fingers tracing along the carved edges until she found the faint indentation Mrs. Hollings had told her about.
The brass key slid into the hidden lock with a soft click.
Inside the secret compartment was a single envelope, yellowed at the edges, sealed with a wax stamp bearing the Lancaster family crest. Clara's hands trembled as she broke the seal. The paper inside smelled faintly of lavender—her mother's scent—and the neat, looping handwriting was unmistakably hers.
To my beloved daughter, Clara,
If you are reading this, it means my worst fears have come true. I know that my time is short, and there are those within our family who would do anything to keep you from claiming what is rightfully yours.
You must understand this, Clara: your inheritance is not just money or land—it is power. The kind of power they will try to take from you by any means necessary.
I leave to you my controlling shares in Lancaster Enterprises, the Bluewood estate, and the family jewels that once belonged to your grandmother. I leave you my art collection, my personal investments, and my seat on the board. These are yours by blood and by right.
Do not trust those who smile too easily. One of them is already plotting against you. Protect yourself, and above all—remember that I loved you more than my own life.
—Your Mother,Isabella Lancaster
Clara's fingers tightened around the paper. The weight of her mother's words pressed against her chest, each sentence unraveling the lies she'd been fed for years. She hadn't just been cheated out of an inheritance—she'd been robbed of her rightful place in the family empire.
Her mind instantly leapt to her uncle Charles, the man who'd taken control of the family business after her mother's death, citing her as "too young" to handle such responsibility. He'd smiled at the funeral, patted her head, and whispered about "keeping the family together." Now she could see the truth—he'd been consolidating power for himself.
But another line in the letter gnawed at her: "One of them is already plotting against you."
One of them.
The "them" could mean anyone. The family was a nest of vipers, but there was one face that flashed in her mind instantly—her aunt Margaret, whose cold eyes had followed Clara for years, measuring, calculating.
Mrs. Hollings spoke again, snapping Clara out of her thoughts. "There's more," she said softly. "The will is legally binding. If the truth comes out, Charles loses everything."
Clara's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Then it's time the truth came out."
The next forty-eight hours became a storm of quiet planning. Clara didn't trust lawyers in her grandfather's pocket, so she reached out to Alexander, who immediately offered the services of his most ruthless legal team.
"This is war," Alexander said, leaning across the table in his office as Clara laid the will before him. "But it's a war you can win. And if we play this right, you'll take more than just what's yours—you'll take control of the entire board."
Clara's eyes gleamed. "That's exactly what I want."
But Alexander's jaw tightened. "Then you need to be prepared for what they'll do to stop you. Charles won't go down quietly. He'll dig into your past, your marriage to Damien, anything he can use to smear you."
At the mention of Damien, Clara felt a familiar flicker of irritation. "Let him try. I'm not the woman I was five years ago."
Still, she knew Alexander was right. Exposing the hidden will wouldn't just be a legal battle—it would be a public scandal. The press would swarm, investors would panic, and enemies would smell blood in the water.
Which was exactly why she needed to control the narrative.
Two nights later, Clara arrived at the Lancaster family dinner unannounced. The long dining table gleamed under the crystal chandelier, silverware catching the light. Her uncle Charles sat at the head, flanked by Margaret and several other board members, all of them in mid-conversation when she walked in.
The room fell silent.
"Clara," Charles said, forcing a smile. "We weren't expecting you."
"I know," she replied, her heels clicking against the marble as she strode toward him. "But I thought you'd all like to hear the news from me, rather than the press."
Margaret's eyes narrowed. "What news?"
Clara reached into her bag and placed the folded will on the table, right in front of Charles. "The news that my mother's last will and testament has been found. The real one."
Charles didn't touch it. "This is absurd."
"Is it?" Clara's voice was calm, but every word was a blade. "Because this document clearly states that my mother left me her controlling shares, her estate, and her board seat. Which means… everything you've been running for the last five years is mine."
A murmur rippled through the room. Margaret's wine glass clinked as she set it down too hard. "You can't prove that's authentic."
"Oh, I can," Clara said smoothly. "And I will. The legal team is already preparing to file. But I wanted to give you a chance to step down quietly, Uncle. To avoid the embarrassment of the trial that will expose exactly how you forged the will you presented."
For the first time, Charles' composure cracked. His face flushed, his jaw working furiously. "You don't know what you're getting into, girl."
Clara leaned in just enough for only him to hear. "No, Uncle. You don't know who you're dealing with."
That night, Clara left the estate knowing the battle lines had been drawn. Charles would strike back, she was sure of it. But now, she had more than just the will—she had momentum, power, and Alexander at her side.
And deep in her gut, she felt something shift. This wasn't just about reclaiming what was hers anymore. This was about vengeance—for her mother, for the years stolen from her, and for every lie she'd been forced to swallow.
But in the shadows, someone else had been listening. A figure she hadn't seen in years… who had their own reasons for keeping the will buried.
The war had just begun.