<b>Chapter </b><b>110 </b>
<b>(</b>Jasper’s POV)
Virginia stares at me, her chest heaving. “You still love her.”
The usation hangs between us.
“This isn’t about love,” I retort. “This is about speaking the truth.”
“The truth?” Virginiaughs. “The truth is, you should’ve chosen me over her four years ago. You should’ve
married me from the beginning like you promised. The truth-”
“The truth,” ir interrupts, her voice stronger than I’ve heard it in weeks, “is acknowledging that <i>we </i>raised Scarlett for twenty–three years. We loved her, cherished her, called her daughter. That doesn’t disappear just because we found our biological child.”
Virginia goes very still. “What are you saying?”
James sighs, suddenly looking tired. “We’re saying that we love you, Virginia. We can do anything for your
happiness. But that won’t change the truth that we also love Scarlett. That house…it holds twenty–three years
of our memories with her, and they matter.”
“More than me?” Virginia’s voice is small now, broken. <fn7d10> The rightful source is fin?novel</fn7d10>
“No, sweetheart. Not more than you. But they do matter.”
I watch Virginia process this, various emotions flickering across her face. Part of me feels sorry for her – she really is a lost child, desperate for the security she never had. But I can’t let that sympathy override what I
know is right.
“What if we don’t sell it at all?” ir suggests suddenly. “What if we just keep it?”
“Keep it for what?” Virginia snaps.
“For Lily,” James says slowly. “For our granddaughter to have a ce to visit, to know where her mother grew up. For family gatherings, maybe. Or Christmas mornings.”
—
Virginia’s face goes through several emotions anger, hurt, resignation. Then she looks directly at me, and I see something in her eyes that makes my stomach turn.
“Fine,” she says. “Keep the house. But I want something in return.”
“What?” James asks warily.
Virginia’s smile is sharp as broken ss. “I want Jasper to move in here. With me. Permanently.”
The request hits me like a physical blow. “Virginia-<b>” </b>
“You want to do the right thing, don’t
you?” She tilts her head, her voice sickeningly sweet again. “Well<b>, </b><b>the </b>right thing is taking care of me. Daddy and Mommy are getting older. They will need help dealing with my attacks. And you’re the only one who can help.”
<b>I </b>see the trap she’s setting, <b>the </b>way she’s manipting the situation to get what she wants while appearing reasonable. But before I can object, ir speaks up.
“<b>That’s </b>not necessary, Virginia. Jasper has his own life-<b>” </b>
“What life?” Virginiaughs. “He lives alone in that big house, pining after a woman who called him a mistake. At least here, he’d be useful. He’d be helping family.”
Tm not moving in here,” I say firmly.
“Then sell the house to someone else,” Virginia shrugs. “But if you keep it, if you choose her connection to this family over myfort, then I need something to make up for it.”
The maniption is so tant it makes me sick. But I can see it working on James and ir, see them wavering between their daughter’s outrageous demands and the right thing to do.
“We’ll keep the house,” James says finally. “But Jasper doesn’t have to move anywhere he doesn’t want to
Virginia’s mask slips for just a second, revealing the fury underneath. Then she’s all sweetness again.
“Of course, Daddy. Whatever you think is best.”
But her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the promise of retribution flickering in her eyes. Only God
knows what she ns to do now.
With my goal achieved, I have no reason to stay. Turning down ir’s invitation for dinner, I walk out of the
house.
An hourter, I’m back in my office, dialing Scarlett’s number with shaking hands.
She answers on the first ring. “Jasper?”
“They’re not selling the house.”
The silence on her end stretches so long I think the call might have dropped.
“Scarlett?”
“They’re keeping it then?” Her voice is small, hopeful.
“Yes. ir wants to preserve the memories associated with the house.”
(Virginia’s POV)
Rage burns through me like acid.
I pace my pristine new bedroom, my hands shaking with fury.
ir’s words echo in my head like a taunt. <i>“</i>We <i>raised </i>her <i>for </i><i>twenty</i><i>–</i><i>three </i>years<i>,</i><i>” </i>
Those memories. Always those damn memories of their perfect adopted daughter while I rotted in foster
care, unloved and unwanted.
<i>My </i>phone buzzes with a text from some college friend congratting me on the new house. I throw it across the room, watching it crash against the wall.
It’s not enough. This house, this room, this life they’ve handed me – none of it matters while she still exists in
their hearts.
I stop pacing and stare at myself in the floor–length mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes wild. I look like the unstable girl everyone thinks I am. The one who has “episodes” and needs to be handled with care.
But I’m not unstable. I’m strategic.
They want to keep that house for Scarlett? Fine. Let’s see how much good it does her when she can’t ess <ol><li>it. </li></ol>
225 PRHINE
Three days ago, when I was helping ir pack thest of her jewelry, I saw where she keeps the important documents. The safebination written on a slip of paper tucked behind her jewelry box – sentimental fool
that she is.
The house deed is there, filed neatly with all their other papers.
I wait until they go to bed, then slip downstairs to James’s study. The safe opens with a quiet click, and there
it is the deed to 1247 Maple Street.
The house is worth at least two million, probably more in today’s market. James bought it outright thirty years ago, back when he was building his business empire. No mortgage, no liens, just a clean title in his
name.
A clean title I’m about to make very messy.
I forge his signature carefully. I’ve been practicing it for months, ever since I realized how useful it might be. James’s handwriting is bold but simple – easy enough to copy if you know what you’re doing.
And I definitely know what I’m doing.
The hardest part is finding a buyer willing to ask <i>no </i>questions. But money talks, especially when you’re offering a house worth two million for eight hundred thousand cash. I post it on a private real estate group, one that caters to families looking for quick purchases.
The Hernandez family calls within hours.
“The house is avable immediately,” I tell Mrs. Hernandez over the phone. “My father needs to sell quickly due to… medical expenses. He’s asking eight hundred thousand, cash only.”
“That seems very low for that neighborhood,” she says, suspicious.
“He wants it to go to a good family. He’d rather take less money than deal with lengthy negotiations.”
Three dayster, I meet them at a coffee shop with all the forged paperwork. Mr. Hernandez is a contractor, his wife a nurse. They have three kids and have been saving for years to buy in a decent school district.
Perfect.
“Your father seems like a generous man,” Mrs. Hernandez says as she signs the papers.
“Oh, he is,” I smile sweetly. “Family means everything to him.”
The transaction isplete within a week. Cash sale, no inspections, no dys. By the time anyone realizes what’s happened, it’ll be toote to stop.
I watch from my car as the Hernandez family moves in, their children running through the rooms where Scarlett once yed. Their furniture recing memories, their pictures covering walls that once held family photos of a girl who never belonged there anyway.
This is justice. This is what should have happened twenty–three years ago.
My <i>phone </i>buzzes with a text from James: “Virginia, have you seen the deed to the old house? I can’t find it anywhere.”
I delete the message without responding.
Let them figure it out themselves.
Violet Moon
#Vote#l