6. The Interrogation

As Victoria’s piercing gaze bore into her like a scalpel, Evie felt the walls of the sunroom closing in, the scent of fresh coffee turning bitter in her throat. The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished teak table where her untouched breakfast sat congealing. The Voss Mansion’s sunroom was a deceptive oasis—wicker chairs cushioned in cream linen, potted ferns swaying gently in the artificial breeze from hidden vents, and a panoramic view of the manicured gardens outside. But right now, it felt like a glass cage, with Victoria and Damien as the predators circling their prey.

Evie straightened her spine, forcing her hands to stop trembling as she set down her coffee cup with a soft clink. She was Evelyn Voss now, not the scared obituary writer from a dingy apartment. But the weight of the lie pressed down on her, heavy as the diamond ring Thorne had slipped onto her finger last night—a “wedding band” that felt more like a shackle. Victoria stood across the table, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe chignon, her black dress hugging her lithe frame like armor. Damien lounged against a marble column nearby, arms crossed, his pale blue eyes glittering with predatory amusement. They had ambushed her here, right after the maid had cleared the plates, turning what should have been a quiet morning into an inquisition.

“So, Evelyn,” Victoria began, her voice smooth as silk but sharp as broken glass. She didn’t sit; she loomed, one manicured hand resting lightly on the table’s edge. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. You’ve appeared out of thin air, claiming to be my stepson’s secret wife. No invitations to family gatherings, no mentions in his will before this convenient ‘update,’ no evidence beyond that laughable story of a whirlwind romance in Santorini. Tell me—how does a nobody like you snare a man like Kael?”

Evie’s mind raced, flashing back to Thorne’s hurried coaching sessions in the study. Stick to the script. Santorini, private villa, six months ago. He proposed under the stars. Keep it simple. She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the coffee. “We met at a charity event in Greece. It was… unexpected. Kael wanted to keep it private because of the press. He said his family life was complicated enough without adding tabloid drama.”

Damien snorted, pushing off the column to pace closer. His cologne—something sharp and expensive—wafted over her, making her stomach churn. “Complicated? That’s one way to put it. Kael was a control freak, Evelyn. He documented everything—deals, enemies, even his damn coffee preferences. But a wife? Poof, no record. And you—a freelance writer scraping by on obituaries? Come on. What’s the real story? Blackmail? Some scam with Thorne?”

Evie’s cheeks burned, but she held her ground. “It’s not a scam. We eloped. There are photos, witnesses—”

“Photos?” Victoria’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Show me one. Right now.”

Evie hesitated, her mind blanking. Thorne had promised fabricated proof, but it wasn’t ready yet. “They’re… private. On a secure drive. I can get them later.”

Damien laughed, a harsh bark that echoed off the glass walls. “Sloppy, Evelyn. Very sloppy. You know, I’ve been digging. Your mother’s hospital bills? Suddenly paid in full the day after Kael’s ‘death.’ Coincidence? Or payment for services rendered?”

The accusation hit like a punch. Evie’s pulse thundered in her ears, and for a split second, her thoughts veered to the shadow from last night—the tall figure outside her door, the whisper of her name. Don’t scream, Evelyn. Was it Kael? Watching, waiting? Could he be helping her even now? The idea sent a strange thrill through her fear, a spark of hope amid the panic. If he was alive, maybe he had a plan. Maybe she wasn’t alone in this nightmare.

Before she could respond, Victoria leaned in closer, her perfume cloying. “Damien’s right. You’re a fraud, dear. And frauds don’t inherit empires. Kael built Voss from nothing—tech innovations, real estate that spans continents. I won’t let some gold-digging imposter waltz in and take it. Admit it now, and maybe we’ll let you walk away with your dignity. Refuse, and we’ll bury you in court.”

Evie’s slip came then—a small one, but damning. “Kael told me about the empire. How he started with that first app in his garage, bootstrapping it with loans from—”

“Loans?” Damien’s eyes narrowed, triumphant. “Kael never took loans. He funded it himself, from his trust fund. See? You don’t even know the basics. Who are you really, Evelyn Monroe?”

The use of her real last name stung like a slap. How did they know? Evie’s hands clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms. The room spun slightly, the sunroom’s warmth turning oppressive. She recalled the shadow again, the faint cedar scent that matched Kael’s portrait. If he was out there, why wasn’t he intervening? Or was this a test?

The door to the sunroom swung open with a decisive click, and Reginald Thorne strode in, his silver hair impeccable, briefcase in hand. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if family interrogations were just another item on his agenda. “Mrs. Voss,” he said, nodding to Evie before turning to the others. “Victoria, Damien. I see you’ve started without me. How predictable.”

Victoria straightened, her eyes flashing. “Thorne. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, but it does.” He set his briefcase on the table with a thud and snapped it open, pulling out a sheaf of documents. “As executor of Kael’s estate, I’m here to present the evidence you so desperately crave. Marriage certificate—filed discreetly in Greece six months ago. Photos from the ceremony. Bank records showing joint accounts opened shortly after. And witness statements from the villa staff.”

Damien snatched the certificate, scanning it with a scowl. “This could be forged.”

Thorne’s smile was thin. “Challenge it in court, if you dare. But remember, Kael anticipated this. He left specific instructions: any contestation triggers an audit of the entire family’s finances. Victoria, your little ‘side investments’ in offshore accounts? Damien, those questionable loans to your failing startups? All fair game.”

The room fell silent. Victoria’s face paled slightly, her greed laid bare—Evie could see it now, the way she eyed the empire not as a legacy, but as a prize to hoard. Damien’s ambition burned brighter, his jaw clenched as he dreamed of the CEO chair that had slipped from his grasp with Kael’s “death.” The internal rivalries Thorne had hinted at were cracking open, raw and vicious.

Victoria exchanged a glance with Damien, then forced a tight smile. “Very well. For now. But this isn’t over, Thorne. Or you, Evelyn.”

Thorne gestured toward the door. “I’m sure it isn’t. Allow me to escort you out.”

As they filed out, Victoria pausing to shoot Evie one last venomous look, the tension in the sunroom eased like a storm passing. Evie exhaled shakily, slumping back in her chair. Thorne gave her a nod—approval? Warning?—before following them.

She was alone again, the coffee cold, the gardens outside blurred by her unshed tears. But then, from behind a decorative panel in the wall—a ornate wooden screen hiding a service door—she heard it. A faint whisper, low and urgent, sending ice down her spine.

“They’re lying to you—meet me tonight.”