SCORNED EX WIFE Queen Of Ashes (Camille and Stefan)

Chapter 17

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

"Ms.

Lewis, do you think the police should reopen the investigation into your sister's death?"

The reporter's question hitlike ice water as | stepped out of my boutique. Three months. Three months since

Camille's car had been pulled from the river. Three months of playing the grieving sister while se | arranged my

face into the perfect mask of dignified grief I'd perfected. "My family continues to cooperate fully with

authorities," | said, voice carefully modulated to show emotion without appearing unstable. "Bu The reporter

pressed closer, microphone extended. "Soutces close to the investigation say no body was ever recovered. Some

suggest the case should be treated as a missing person situation rather than a presumed drowning

My heart skipped a beat, though my expression remained steady. "The current was exceptionally strong that

night. The police explained this to us. Many drowning victims are never..." | let my voice catch delibe This

performance was becoming tedious. I'd given the sanswers at the memorial service, at charity events, at

business functions. Always the grieving sister, bravely carrying on despite unimaginable loss. | sympathy

opening doors, sad smiles earning trust, tearful interviews generating publicity for my fashion line.

But lately, the questions had shifted. Where's the body? Why was she driving there that night? Was there a

suicide note? Each one carrying the unspoken suggestion that things didn't add up. "One last question" the

reporter started, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I'm late for a meeting with investors. Please respect my family's

privacy during this difficult time."

My driver held the car door open, and I slid inside, dropping the sorrowful expression the moment the tinted

windows shieldedfrom view. Tension coiled in my stomach like a snake. These questions were be "The Lewis

Industries offices," | instructed the driver, checking my makeup in a compact mirror. Perfect, as always. Not a

crack in the facade.

| glanced at the news alert on my phone as | slid into the car

The headline made my blood freeze.

**HEIRESS DROWNING: QUESTIONS REMAIN**

The article rehashed the basics, Camille's car found partially submerged, no witnesses, no body recovered

despite extensive searching. But it also included quotes from a "source close to the investigation" sugg | closed

the article with a flick of my finger. My father had probably seen it already. He monitored all news about the

family obsessively since Camille's disappearalice,

Of course he was. Daddy never could handle pressure. Always looking to others to fix his problems, usually me,

since Camille had been useless in a crisis. Just one more way I'd proven my value to the family t

Chapter 17

The car pulled up to Lewis Industries, the gleaming tower that housed my father's company. The business he'd

built from nothing, the empire that should have been mine from the beginning, if not for his sentimentality

regarding his biological daughter.

The receptionist smiled as | entered the lobby. "Ms. Lewis, your father is expecting you."

The executive elevator whiskedto the top floor, where Dad's assistant usheredstraight into his office. He

stood at the window, back to the door, shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. He'd lost weight "Daddy," | said

softly, closing the door behind me. "You wanted to see me?"

He turned, face haggard in ways makeup couldn't hide. None of the fake grief I'd perfected, but genuine

suffering etched into every line. It was pathetic, really. All this pain for a daughter who had never apprecia

"Rose." He opened his arms, and | stepped into them, playing my part

perfectly. The supportive daughter. The family's rock. "Have you seen the papers?"

"Just now. It's nothing, tabloid nonsense."

He released me, moving to his desk where several newspapers lay open. Not just the Post, but the Times, the

Journal. All running variations of the sstory.

"The board is concerned," he said, sinking into his chair. These rumors... the suggestion of impropriety... it's

affecting investor confidence."

| perched on the edge of his desk, laying a comforting hand on his arm. "The police investigation was thorough.

The case is closed. These are just reporters looking for a story where none exists."

"Your mother hired a private investigator."

The words hitlike a slap. "She what?"

Dad rubbed his temples, looking older by the minute. "Behind my back. Said she couldn't live with unanswered

questions. Needed closure."

Panic fluttered in my chest, but | kept my voice level. "That's unnecessary. And potentially damaging to the

company if it suggests we don't trust the official investigation."

"That's what | told her!" His fist hit the desk, a rare display of temper. "But she won't listen. Ever since... since we

lost Camille, she's been different. Distant. Suspicious."

Of me, he meant. Though he wouldn't say it aloud. Moin had always been more perceptive than him, more likely

to see through my careful manipulations. She'd been watchingwith narrowed eyes at family "I'll talk to her,"

| promised, mind already racing through potential problems. A private investigator meant questions. Digging

Potentially uncovering things better left buried.

Like the men I'd hired to scare Camille. The ones who were supposed to rough her up a bit, send a message,

then disappear. Not force her car off a bridge. Not kill her. That hadn't been the plan. Excessive, messy, and

unnecessary. But what was done was done, and I'd adapted accordingly. Tragedy could be useful when properly

managed

"It's not just the investigation," Dad continued, looking miserable. "The memorial fund donations have raised

questions too. That Times reporter asked for a breakdown of how the money's being used." The Camille Lewis

Memorial Fund, my masterstroke. Set up ostensibly to support mental health awareness, it had

Chapter 17.

generated nearly two million in donations, much of which was currently financing my fashion line's expansion. All

perfectly legal, with the right paperwork and the right accountants. But not something that would "I'll have the

Foundation's accountants prepare a statement," | said smoothly. "Complete transparency will put these

questions to rest."

Dad nodded, clearly relieved to havehandling

things. Always so eager to believe the best of me. To seeas the good daughter, the responsible one. The

worthy heir.

"There's one more thing," he said, hesitation in his voice. "Detective Ramirez called this morning. They found

something downstream. A... a shoe. They think it might be Camille's."

My stomach dropped. "After three months in the water?"

"Caught in debris, apparently. They want us to identify it."

A shoe. Just a shoe. Not a body. Not evidence of anything except that my sister had been wearing footwear when

her car went into the river. Still, it unsettled me. Physical evidence connecting Camille to the wa

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning." He looked away. "Would you go? Your mother can't handle it, and I..."

"Of course." | squeezed his hand, the dutiful daughter once more. "I'll handle everything."

| left his office with my mind churning. Too many loose threads. The newspaper articles. Mom's private

investigator. Now this shoe. Small things individually, but together they formed a pattern | didn't like. Quest My

phone buzzed as | reached the lobby. A text from one of my investors, confirming our meeting tomorrow. |

responded quickly, promising to bring the updated business projections.

As my car arrived, | couldn't help but feel irritation building. These questions about Camille's

disappearance were becoming an unwelcdistraction from my business plans. The last thing | needed was

police reopening the case and digging into details better left buried.

Details that only | knew. The men I'd hired to scare Camille that night. The plan that had gone terribly wrong

when they forced her car off the bridge instead of just delivering a warning. A miscalculation | hadn't a

The afternoon crawled by in a haze of meetings and phone calls. My fashion line was gaining traction, featured in

Vogue last month, celebrities requesting custom pieces. Everything I'd worked for was falling int Except these

damned questions that wouldn't die.