Confronting the Murderer

The heavy wooden door of the corporate meeting room slowly creaked inward, the metal hinges groaning under the weight. The sharp, ominous clicking of high heels that had just echoed in the hallway now entered the room. A stunning woman stepped into the sterile light, impeccably dressed in a sharp, tailored white suit that radiated authority. Her long, dark hair cascaded elegantly over her shoulders, framing her striking features and bold red lips.

Sloane leaned forward on the expensive leather couch, her rehearsed, arrogant complaints already loaded on her tongue. She was furious about waiting for twenty minutes and needed someone to punish. "Is your corporation getting arrogant? How dare you make your business partner wait for—"

The words instantly died in her throat. Sloane turned her head, and her breath caught in a sharp gasp. Her eyes locked onto the newcomer, tracing the undeniable lines of her face. The arched eyebrows, the piercing eyes, the sharp jawline. It was Clara. The exact, undeniable features of her sister—the very same woman who had supposedly drowned in a lake four agonizing years ago.

Utterly panic-stricken, every drop of blood rapidly drained from Sloane's pale face. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She violently gripped the edge of the leather couch, her manicured nails digging into the upholstery as she stared at the impossible sight before her.

"A-Are you a living human, or a vengeful ghost?" Sloane stammered uncontrollably, her voice raw and shaking.

Clara stepped further into the meeting room, her absolute confidence radiating a suffocatingly oppressive aura. She did not flinch. She walked directly over to the seating area and sat down across from her trembling sister. Fixing Sloane with a razor-sharp, chilling glare, Clara leaned forward, her presence dominating the space.

"Which one would you actually prefer me to be?" Clara replied coolly.

Sloane swallowed hard as a sinking dread pooled in her stomach. Clara had somehow miraculously survived the immense blood loss of childbirth. She had survived the raging warehouse fire. She had even survived the freezing river. Sloane's heart raced like a cornered animal’s. As she stared into Clara’s unyielding eyes, a horrifying realization struck her. Clara's hyper-aggressive gaze perfectly mirrored the terrifying demeanor of four-year-old Rowan Vance. The haughty tilt of the chin, the piercing stare—it was identical. Sloane became instantly terrified of the dire, apocalyptic consequences if the two of them were ever to cross paths. If Rowan ran into Clara, the Vance family would immediately see the connection.

Desperately suppressing her overwhelming fear, Sloane dug her nails deeper into her palms to ground herself. She immediately reverted to her usual manipulative tactics. She blinked rapidly, forcing thick tears to well in her eyes. The crocodile tears spilled down her cheeks in a practiced show of sorrow.

"Clara! You are alive!" Sloane cried, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion. "Do you have any idea how much I deeply regretted my past actions? I never should have left you alone in that warehouse that night. Dad misses you dearly, every single day. Why don't you come back and visit him? If he knew you were alive, he would be overjoyed..."

Clara let out a sharp, genuine sneer. The contemptuous sound cut right through Sloane’s fake sobs. Clara knew perfectly well that Victor Ashford’s so-called fatherly love was nothing but a cheap, transparent facade meant to secure her highly valuable corporate shares. She vividly remembered the sickening crack of his hand slapping her face the day after her coming-of-age ceremony, right after her traumatic scandal broke. A real father would not have ruthlessly ordered her locked in a freezing warehouse after a major mental trauma. A real father would not have abandoned her for months.

Her voice laced with a deep, burning hatred, Clara leaned forward and declared her intent. "You have been living the past four years in complete peace, Sloane. But it is about time that peace came to a violent end. I am going to ruthlessly take back absolutely everything that belongs to me."

Sloane shrank back into the cushions, her mind spinning wildly. Take back everything? Does she want to steal the twins from me?

Clara’s gaze darkened into something monstrous. "And I vow to make you pay in blood for my infant children’s tragic deaths."

The lethal threat cut incredibly deep, but just as quickly, a sudden, massive wave of immense relief washed over Sloane's racing mind. Clara's words confirmed one crucial thing. She fully believed her babies had died at birth. Clara was entirely unaware that the heavily guarded Vance family twins were actually hers. Sloane realized with absolute certainty that Clara couldn't possibly know the explosive truth, thanking her lucky stars that Kaelen Vance kept the children's existence a tight secret.

Still, Sloane knew she couldn't possibly let Clara live long enough to discover the truth. She seamlessly hid her sinister, murderous intentions behind a mask of sorrow, feigning innocence and grief.

"Clara, what are you saying?" Sloane softly claimed, wiping a tear away with a trembling hand. "Your babies died the moment they were born. I am their aunt. How could I ever harm them? I personally buried those tiny infants with my own hands. I even set up tombstones for them, and I have faithfully swept their lonely graves every single year."

Sloane watched Clara’s rigid posture, noticing the raw pain flickering in her sister's eyes. "It is a remote location," Sloane offered tentatively. "It is too hard to describe exactly where it is in the eastern suburbs. But I could personally take you there tomorrow."

Clara stood up with terrifying, blinding speed. The heavy chair screeched harshly against the floor. Before Sloane could even blink, Clara lunged across the glass table and violently grabbed Sloane by the expensive collar of her shirt.

"Where did you bury them?" Clara viciously demanded, her bone-crushing grip twisting the fabric against Sloane’s throat. "Tell me the exact location!"

Haunted by four years of endless, torturous nightmares featuring her lost, bluish-black children, Clara desperately, intensely longed to visit their graves. She needed to see them to soothe her bleeding heart just a fraction. But even as the profound grief threatened to consume her, her iron resolve remained entirely unyielding. She would never forgive the people who caused their premature deaths.