Chapter 41 - The Codicil’s Shadow
The paper felt like ice between my fingers.
The ink was unmistakably my grandfather’s—the sharp, deliberate strokes of Arthur Vance, a man who built a timber and banking empire on discipline and calculated foresight. But the words burned into my retinas, defying every timeline I had ever known.
*Beware the fourth child—the one Scott hid from you before the triplets were born.*
"Lauren?" Marcus’s voice broke through the deafening roar in my ears. He reached out, his hand steadying my elbow as my knees threatened to give way. "What does it say?"
I couldn't speak. I simply handed him the yellowed parchment.
Outside, the autumn wind rustled the maples along our quiet suburban street. Up in the nursery, the soft hum of the white noise machine kept Liam, Noah, and Maya asleep in their white wooden cribs. Just twenty minutes ago, I had finally believed the nightmare was over. Scott was behind bars. Apex was dismantled. The man who had mocked my postpartum body, who had thrown a box of adult diapers at my face while I bled from bringing three lives into the world, was finally paying for his crimes.
Marcus read the lines. His jaw tightened so hard I heard the grind of his teeth.
"Twenty-four years ago," Marcus murmured, his eyes scanning the date at the bottom. "Arthur Vance executed the primary trust when you were barely a teenager. But this codicil... look at the bottom margin. The notary stamp is from six years ago. Just two months before you and Scott got married."
"My grandfather died five years ago, Marcus," I whispered, my voice trembling. "He was in hospice. He had dementia for the last eighteen months of his life."
"Then someone brought him this document when he was lucid—or someone manipulated him into signing it," Marcus said, stepping inside and shutting the heavy front door, throwing the deadbolt. The click of the brass lock sounded like a cell door closing. "Scott didn't just stumble into your life, Lauren. We knew Apex had financial ties to your family's old holdings, but this proves premeditation. What fourth child? Scott told everyone you were his first serious relationship. He swore he had never been engaged, never had children."
"He lied about everything else," I said, a bitter coldness replacing the shock in my veins. "He lied about his mother’s medical debts. He lied about his consulting firm. He lied about Victor Sterling. Why wouldn't he lie about a child?"
My mind raced through the seven years I had known Scott Hastings. I remembered our first year together—his sudden, unexplained weekend trips to upstate New York that he claimed were for 'corporate retreats.' I remembered the locked leather briefcase he guarded with his life until the day we moved into this house. Most vividly, I remembered a night three years ago, before I conceived the triplets through our grueling second round of IVF. I had found a receipt in his suit pocket from an elite pediatric clinic in Westchester, billed to an anonymous trust account. When I asked him about it, he had exploded in rage, calling me paranoid, crazy, and hormonally unstable.
Back then, I had apologized to him. I had blamed myself.
"Marcus," I said, turning to look him dead in the eyes. "The FBI seized all of Scott’s private safe deposit boxes this morning, didn't they?"
"Yes. Agent Miller has them at the federal field office downtown."
"There was an account," I said, my pulse hammering against my ribs. "A pediatric clinic in Westchester. St. Jude’s Children's Pavilion. I need to know if Scott was paying them."
Marcus pulled out his phone. "Miller owes me a favor after the server drive I handed over. Give me ten minutes."
He stepped toward the back patio, speaking in low, urgent tones into the receiver. I stood alone in the hallway, staring down at the codicil. The house was peaceful, but the silence felt like an ambush.
If Scott had a child before we married, that child was older than my triplets. And under the original terms of my grandfather’s multi-million-dollar Vance Family Trust, the firstborn grandchild—or great-grandchild—held the power to dissolve the primary trusteeship upon reaching adulthood.
Marcus walked back into the living room, his face grim and pale.
"Agent Miller ran the transaction records from Scott’s offshore shell company," Marcus said quietly. "St. Jude’s received monthly retainer fees from Scott for seven straight years. The last payment went through three days ago, right before the raid."
"Who is the patient?" I demanded, my hands clenching into fists. "What is the child's name?"
Marcus swallowed hard. "The patient isn't Scott's child with another woman, Lauren. The admission file lists the biological mother's maiden name as Vance."
The room spun.
"That's impossible," I breathed, clutching the back of the sofa. "I never had a baby before the triplets. I had a miscarriage six years ago—a late-term emergency surgery at a private surgical center Scott chose. He told me the fetus didn't survive."
May you like
Marcus looked at me with an agonizing mixture of pity and terror. "Lauren... the child at St. Jude’s is a six-year-old girl. And the emergency contact listed on her file isn't just Scott. It's Victor Sterling."
***
