Miriam Anderson leaned back against the velvet chaise lounge in her lavish suite at The Langford, swirling a glass of vintage Bordeaux between her fingers. The city sparkled outside the window, its skyline a glittering illusion of permanence—but her eyes weren't on the lights.
They were locked on the young woman seated across from her—poised, polished, and utterly manufactured.
Verena Claire.
The fake heiress.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Tonight, they had a plan.
"Victor is weak for ceremony," Miriam said with a calculated smile, her voice honeyed but sharp. "He believes in legacy. In appearances. So we give him exactly what he wants."
Verena nodded, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. Every gesture was intentional, rehearsed. "You're suggesting the anniversary gala."
Miriam took a slow sip of her wine. "The perfect stage. All the board members, the old guard, the media—everyone who matters under one roof. If he introduces you then, as his 'rightful daughter,' it becomes gospel. No one will dare question it after that."
Verena's gaze sharpened. "And what about Logan?"
A flicker of distaste crossed Miriam's face, barely there but unmistakable. "Logan is a problem. But a contained one—for now. His absence from the gala will speak volumes. Let them whisper about his rebellion while we stand beneath the chandelier with crystal glasses and smiles carved from victory."
Verena hesitated. "And if he does show up?"
Miriam set her glass down with a soft clink. "Then we smile wider. We outshine. This isn't about fighting him—it's about replacing him in the eyes of the family. And once Victor speaks your name in front of that crowd…" Her voice grew cool, certain. "Logan becomes a ghost."
Verena looked away for a beat. The room suddenly felt heavier, quieter. She wasn't naïve. This wasn't just a scheme—it was a coronation by deceit.
"And he'll do it?" she asked quietly. "Victor, I mean? He'll really say it out loud?"
Miriam rose, her silk gown whispering against the floor, and walked toward the mirror above the fireplace. Her reflection stared back at her—composed, regal, indomitable.
"He will," she said without turning. "He needs to feel admired. He needs to feel in control. All you have to do is look up at him with that delicate smile of yours and call him 'Father' in front of the press. He won't be able to resist."
Verena's lips curled into a small, amused smile. "You've turned manipulation into art."
Miriam finally turned. "It's not manipulation if he enjoys it."
A silence stretched between them—thick with implications. Verena shifted slightly in her seat.
"You want to win more than anything, don't you?"
Miriam didn't blink. "I don't just want to win, darling. I was born to rule."
Those words lingered in the air. Verena felt them settle in her chest like a stone. Somewhere deep inside, she wondered what it had cost Miriam to become this composed weapon of ambition. But she didn't ask. She already knew the answer.
Everything.
The faint strains of a Chopin nocturne played from the gramophone, elegant and mournful. Verena took another sip of her wine and asked, softer now, "And after the gala? After the declaration? What happens to me?"
Miriam's expression shifted just slightly—enough to suggest a sliver of humanity beneath the marble.
"You keep playing your part. Stay charming. Stay compliant. I'll protect you. But never forget—your crown is borrowed. And I can take it back."
Verena blinked, but nodded. She understood. This was the game she had chosen to play.
A kingdom of illusions, held up by threads of well-dressed lies.
Just then, Miriam's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. A message from Victor.
"We'll speak tomorrow about the gala. Private meeting. Your suggestion intrigued me."
She turned the phone toward Verena, letting her read it. "See?" she murmured. "The trap is already set."
Verena allowed herself a flicker of pride. "And the bait is beautifully dressed."
Miriam gave a tight smile. "Let's make sure you don't just look the part. Let's make you irrefutable."
She poured more wine, this time from a second decanter—a more delicate vintage. "You'll need a new dress," she added thoughtfully. "Something that evokes heritage. Not seduction."
"I have a Dior in ivory silk," Verena said. "Elegant, understated."
Miriam shook her head. "Too modern. I want old money. Something that whispers legacy, not fashion."
"You're dressing me like a memory," Verena said.
"I'm dressing you like a myth," Miriam replied. "A woman so steeped in family lore, no one dares ask where she came from."
Verena laughed softly. "You make it sound like war."
"It is war," Miriam said, eyes gleaming. "But our weapons are charm and narrative. Pearls and perception."
Verena looked down at her hands, then back up. "Do you think Logan ever really wanted this life?"
Miriam's jaw tightened slightly. "Logan had every advantage. Every opportunity. He didn't want to inherit power—he wanted to lecture it. He thought being good made him strong. It made him predictable."
"And you?" Verena asked, voice almost too quiet. "Are you predictable?"
Miriam's gaze was razor-sharp. "Only to those who underestimate me."
Just then, another buzz from the phone broke the silence. This time the name made her fingers still:
Reginald.
The message was brief.
"Logan met with one of the Zurich contacts today. He knows."
Miriam's mind sharpened like a blade unsheathed.
Logan knew something. But how much?
She turned the screen away from Verena and stood, walking to the window. Her reflection hovered in the glass like a ghost beside the skyline.
"What is it?" Verena asked.
Miriam kept her voice even. "Logan's stirring. But it's too late. The pieces are already in place."
Verena rose to stand beside her. "You think he'll try to stop it?"
Miriam turned, slow and composed. "He'll try. That's what makes him dangerous. But in the end, he'll do it too late. And when he does—"
She reached out and tucked a strand of Verena's hair behind her ear. Her voice lowered to a near whisper.
"—they won't even remember his name."