Chapter 9: Shadows of Oakridge
The interior of Oakridge Manor smelled of polished mahogany, beeswax, and old paper. A crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over a vast entryway featuring a sweeping staircase and dark wainscoted walls adorned with somber oil portraits of ancestors long dead.
At a small mahogany reception desk near the foot of the stairs, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a neat chignon was adjusting a ledger. She looked up as the door chimed softly, her sharp blue eyes assessing the two visitors with calm curiosity.
“Good evening,” the woman said, her voice refined and measured. “Welcome to Oakridge Manor. Are you checking in for the night, or looking for evening tea?”
Elena stepped forward, keeping her posture upright and calm. “We aren’t guests, Mrs.—”
“Vance,” the woman supplied smoothly, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips. “Margaret Vance. And you must be Elena. And by the look of your eyes and the way you carry yourself, you must be Claire.”
Elena and Claire froze. The receptionist didn’t flinch or look surprised; she simply closed her ledger with a soft thud and folded her hands on the desk.
“You were expecting us?” Claire asked, her heart skipping a beat.
Margaret Vance stood up slowly, leaning slightly on a carved wooden cane. She wore a high-collared emerald dress that mirrored the color of Elena’s top from days ago—a bizarre, almost theatrical coincidence. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight, specifically. But I knew that sooner or later, Robert’s house of cards would collapse, and someone would come looking for the foundation.”
Elena stepped closer, the protective instinct surging back into her chest. “You knew Robert? You knew what happened thirty-five years ago?”
“I didn't just know him, my dear,” Margaret said softly, walking around the desk toward them with measured steps. “Robert was a young, ambitious law clerk working for my family’s legal counsel in Boston. He was bright, desperate to climb out of his working-class background, and willing to do whatever it took to secure a foothold in our world.”
“And the baby?” Claire asked, her voice tight, the words catching in her throat. “Was I... was I part of some arrangement?”
Margaret stopped a few feet away, her blue eyes softening as she looked at Claire. “You were born here, in this house, on a rainy night in June 1988. Your mother was my youngest daughter, Evelyn. She fell in love with a man our family deemed unsuitable, and when she became pregnant, the scandal threatened to ruin my husband’s political aspirations.”
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Elena felt the room tilt. “Evelyn... Robert told me we used an anonymous clinic.”
“Robert lied,” Margaret stated matter-of-factly. “He approached my husband with a proposition. He offered to take the child off our hands, remove her completely from our social circle, and raise her quietly with a new, pliable wife he intended to marry—you, Elena. In exchange, my husband provided Robert with the financial backing and initial capital to start his own firm.”
