Chapter 6
The Ashford Pharmaceutical annual shareholders' meeting.
Three hundred investors. Live-streamed globally. Every business outlet in the country covering it.
My grandfather's will stipulated one thing above all else: the heir must appear in person to claim the trust.
No proxy. No representative. In the flesh.
Dominic had spent months preparing for this meeting—positioning Camille as "the rightful Ashford heir" through my father's endorsement.
With me dead, the trust would pass to my "closest living relative."
Camille had even hired a PR team to prep her image: philanthropic, humble, the "forgotten daughter who deserved recognition."
She had no idea I was sitting in the front row.
I wore white. Hair swept back. No mask this time.
When I walked in, the room didn't react immediately—most of these investors had never met me in person.
But Dominic had.
He was seated on stage beside Camille, playing the supportive partner.
When our eyes met, the blood drained from his face so fast I thought he'd faint.
Camille hadn't noticed yet. She was mid-speech, reading from a teleprompter, voice quivering with rehearsed emotion.
"My sister Vivian's passing was the greatest tragedy of my life. But I know she'd want the Ashford legacy to continue—"
"Would she?"
My voice cut through the auditorium like a blade.
Three hundred heads swiveled.
Camille's words died in her throat.
I stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Because I don't recall giving anyone permission to speak on my behalf."
The silence was absolute.
Then—chaos.
Cameras flashed. Journalists surged forward. The livestream chat exploded.
I walked toward the stage, heels clicking against marble—each step measured, unhurried.
Dominic grabbed Camille's arm. His lips moved—"Don't say anything."
But Camille was frozen. Staring at me like I'd crawled out of hell.
Which, technically, I had.
I climbed the stairs, took the microphone from her limp fingers, and turned to face the crowd.
"Good morning. My name is Vivian Eleanor Ashford. I am the sole heir to the Ashford Pharmaceutical Trust, as designated by my grandfather, Charles Ashford, in his last will and testament."
I paused, letting the words sink in.
"Reports of my death were... premature."
The room erupted.
Behind me, Dominic's chair scraped backward. He stood—face contorted, hands clenching.
His sin score pulsed: **97**.
"Vivian—" he started.
"Sit down, Dominic." My voice was ice. "The adults are talking."
A ripple of murmurs. Someone in the back laughed.
Camille finally found her voice. "This is—this is an impostor! My sister is DEAD! I have the death certificate—"
"You have a forged document," I corrected calmly. "Provided by a coroner your partner bribed. Would you like me to name him? I have his bank records."
The color left Camille's face.
I turned to the board of directors—eleven men and women seated in the front row.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll be filing my formal claim with legal counsel this afternoon. In the meantime, I'd recommend freezing all trust distributions pending verification."
The board chairman stood. "Ms. Ashford—if you can prove your identity—"
"DNA test. Right now. I'll provide a sample on camera."
No hesitation. No fear.
Because the truth was on my side.
And the devil?
He was seated in the back row.
Roman caught my eye across the room—and raised his coffee cup in a silent toast.
Dominic lunged for me.
"You lying—"
Security intercepted him before he took two steps.
As they hauled him backward, I leaned into the mic one final time.
"Oh, and Dominic? I'm filing for divorce. You'll be hearing from my attorneys."
The livestream hit 2 million viewers in ten minutes.
And this was only the beginning.
---
Three hundred investors. Live-streamed globally. Every business outlet in the country covering it.
My grandfather's will stipulated one thing above all else: the heir must appear in person to claim the trust.
No proxy. No representative. In the flesh.
Dominic had spent months preparing for this meeting—positioning Camille as "the rightful Ashford heir" through my father's endorsement.
With me dead, the trust would pass to my "closest living relative."
Camille had even hired a PR team to prep her image: philanthropic, humble, the "forgotten daughter who deserved recognition."
She had no idea I was sitting in the front row.
I wore white. Hair swept back. No mask this time.
When I walked in, the room didn't react immediately—most of these investors had never met me in person.
But Dominic had.
He was seated on stage beside Camille, playing the supportive partner.
When our eyes met, the blood drained from his face so fast I thought he'd faint.
Camille hadn't noticed yet. She was mid-speech, reading from a teleprompter, voice quivering with rehearsed emotion.
"My sister Vivian's passing was the greatest tragedy of my life. But I know she'd want the Ashford legacy to continue—"
"Would she?"
My voice cut through the auditorium like a blade.
Three hundred heads swiveled.
Camille's words died in her throat.
I stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Because I don't recall giving anyone permission to speak on my behalf."
The silence was absolute.
Then—chaos.
Cameras flashed. Journalists surged forward. The livestream chat exploded.
I walked toward the stage, heels clicking against marble—each step measured, unhurried.
Dominic grabbed Camille's arm. His lips moved—"Don't say anything."
But Camille was frozen. Staring at me like I'd crawled out of hell.
Which, technically, I had.
I climbed the stairs, took the microphone from her limp fingers, and turned to face the crowd.
"Good morning. My name is Vivian Eleanor Ashford. I am the sole heir to the Ashford Pharmaceutical Trust, as designated by my grandfather, Charles Ashford, in his last will and testament."
I paused, letting the words sink in.
"Reports of my death were... premature."
The room erupted.
Behind me, Dominic's chair scraped backward. He stood—face contorted, hands clenching.
His sin score pulsed: **97**.
"Vivian—" he started.
"Sit down, Dominic." My voice was ice. "The adults are talking."
A ripple of murmurs. Someone in the back laughed.
Camille finally found her voice. "This is—this is an impostor! My sister is DEAD! I have the death certificate—"
"You have a forged document," I corrected calmly. "Provided by a coroner your partner bribed. Would you like me to name him? I have his bank records."
The color left Camille's face.
I turned to the board of directors—eleven men and women seated in the front row.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'll be filing my formal claim with legal counsel this afternoon. In the meantime, I'd recommend freezing all trust distributions pending verification."
The board chairman stood. "Ms. Ashford—if you can prove your identity—"
"DNA test. Right now. I'll provide a sample on camera."
No hesitation. No fear.
Because the truth was on my side.
And the devil?
He was seated in the back row.
Roman caught my eye across the room—and raised his coffee cup in a silent toast.
Dominic lunged for me.
"You lying—"
Security intercepted him before he took two steps.
As they hauled him backward, I leaned into the mic one final time.
"Oh, and Dominic? I'm filing for divorce. You'll be hearing from my attorneys."
The livestream hit 2 million viewers in ten minutes.
And this was only the beginning.
---