Chapter 2 Who is the Real Heiress?
Chapter 2: Who is the Real Heiress?
The Williamson estate loomed before us like a fortress—all limestone and privilege, complete with iron gates that seemed designed to keep people like me out rather than in. How ironic that I was arriving as its new mistress.
The staff lined up as our car pulled in, faces professionally blank. Only Mrs. Harrison, the housekeeper, betrayed any emotion—a slight tightening around her eyes when Matt introduced me as the new Mrs. Williamson.
"Your suite has been prepared, madam," she said, the word 'madam' sounding like a slur.
Matt's hand pressed against my lower back, steering me toward the grand staircase. "Show my wife to the master bedroom. I'll be in my study."
As Mrs. Harrison led me through the maze of hallways, I counted security cameras—seventeen visible ones before we reached the east wing. The master suite was larger than my entire apartment, decorated in cold grays and blues.
"Mr. Dean's belongings have been moved to the south wing," Mrs. Harrison informed me, lips pinched. "Will there be anything else, Mrs. Williamson?"
The name felt like an ill-fitting costume. "That's all, thank you."
The moment she left, I kicked off the painful wedding heels and began my search. Matt hadn't married me on a whim—there was a plan, and I needed to discover what it was before I became a casualty of it.
I found nothing in the obvious places, but when I pressed against the bookshelf, a section swung open to reveal a hidden safe. Typical. I'd need time to crack it.
My phone buzzed with another text: "Check the south garden. Tomorrow. Noon."
Sleep evaded me that night. I lay rigidly on one side of the massive bed, listening to the house settle around me. Around three AM, the door opened silently. Matt's silhouette filled the doorway.
"Still awake, Mrs. Williamson?" His voice was rough with whiskey.
"Wondering when you're going to tell me about my father."
He moved into the room like a predator. "All in good time. First, I need something from you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "I thought this was a marriage of convenience."
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"It is." He tossed a folder onto the bed. "Sign these. Bank accounts, property transfers, board positions. From now on, we present a united front."
I skimmed the documents. "You're giving me access to everything?"
"I'm giving you the appearance of access. Step out of line, and you'll discover how quickly it all vanishes." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sleep well, wife."
The next morning, I slipped out to the south garden at precisely noon. A groundskeeper approached, pressing a USB drive into my palm before walking away.
Back in my room, I plugged it into my laptop. What I found made my blood freeze—birth records, DNA tests, and surveillance photos spanning twenty years.
Irene wasn't the real Walker heiress. She was Matt's daughter from an affair with my adoptive mother. And I... I was the daughter of Marcus Reynolds, Matt's former business partner who supposedly died in a yacht explosion.
The pieces clicked into terrible place. I wasn't the fake—I'd been the original target all along. My "adoption" had been orchestrated to position me close to the Williamsons.
A soft knock at my door made me jump. Mrs. Harrison entered with afternoon tea. "Mr. Williamson requested your presence in his study at four."
Matt's study was a monument to power—dark mahogany, leather-bound books, and the distinct scent of expensive cigars. He stood with his back to me, gazing out at the manicured grounds.
"Did you find what you were looking for in the garden?" he asked without turning.
I froze. "I don't know what—"
"Please." He turned, eyes cold. "This is my house. Nothing happens here without my knowledge."
He crossed to a painting of a naval battle, swinging it aside to reveal another safe. Inside was a single photo frame, which he placed on the desk between us.
It was me. As an infant. With the words "Final Solution" written across the bottom.
"You've been watching me my entire life," I whispered.
"Your father took everything from me. My fiancée. My first company. My reputation." Matt's fingers traced the photo. "When I discovered he had a child, I knew exactly how to destroy him."
"By using me."
"The plan was simple. Have you raised by the Walkers, guide you toward Dean, then destroy the engagement publicly." His smile was terrifying. "But then you surprised me by climbing into my lap. I had to... improvise."
A commotion outside interrupted us—Dean's voice, slurred with alcohol. The study door burst open.
"Celebrating the happy couple!" Dean staggered in, whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers. "My father and my fiancée. How fucking poetic."
Matt didn't even flinch. "You're drunk. Get out."
"What's wrong, Dad? Worried I'll damage your new toy?" Dean's eyes raked over me. "She's good, you know. Really good. Cries so prettily when—"
The slap echoed through the room. Matt stood unflinching as Dean touched his reddened cheek.
"You have exactly five seconds to leave this room," Matt said quietly.
Dean's laugh was ugly. "You can have her. The bitch was just a stand-in anyway."
That night, I doubled the locks on my bedroom door. It didn't matter. At 2 AM, I woke to Dean looming over me, his hand clamped over my mouth.
"Hello, stepmother," he slurred. "Time to finish what we started."
I bit down on his hand and scrambled away, but he caught my ankle, dragging me back across the silk sheets.
"Nobody says no to me," he growled, pinning my wrists. "Especially not my father's whore."
My fingers found the panic button installed beside the headboard. I slammed it hard.
"What's that?" Dean froze.
I smiled through my terror. "That's me telling your father that his son is trying to rape his wife."
The bedroom door crashed open. Matt stood in the doorway, barefoot in silk pajama bottoms, a leather belt wrapped around his fist.
"Dean," he said, voice deadly calm. "Choose your death."
