Chapter 11
Chapter 11
CAMILLE’S POINT OF VIEW
“Stanford University, class of 2016. Summa cum laude. Double major in Economics and Computer Science.”
I stared at the diploma in my hands, the heavy paper embossed with gold seals and signatures. My name, Camille Kane written in elegant calligraphy across the center. A degree I never earned from a university I’d never attended. “How is this possible?” I asked, running my finger over the raised seal. It felt real. Everything felt real. Victoria sat across from me in her private office, walls lined with dark wood and floor–to–ceiling bookshelves. A massive desk separated us, covered with documents spread out like puzzle pieces forming my new life. “Money opens many doors,” she said, sliding another folder toward me. “People are surprisingly willing to alter records when the price is right. The right donation to the alumni fund, the right conversation with the right daan.” I opened the folder to find transcripts, teacher evaluations, even photos of “me” at graduation. The woman in the pictures looked like me, but with subtle differences, straightened hair, confident posture, designer clothes I’d never owned.
“That’s not me,” I whispered, touching the smiling graduate’s face.
“Digital manipulation. Quite good, isn’t it? We had an expert blend your features with photos of a real Stanford graduate. Just enough to pass as you if no one looks too closely.”
1 moved to the next document. Harvard Business School acceptance letter, followed by more transcripts, more doctored photos.
“MBA with focus on venture capital and emerging markets, Victoria continued, watching me closely. “You were quiet but brilliant. Professors remember you as intensely private but insightful.”
“And these professors will confirm this if asked?”
Victoria’s smile was thin. “They already have. Three different background checks from various business publications have contacted them. All received the same carefully constructed memories of the remarkable but reserved Camille Kane.”
My head spun. The depth of the deception was staggering. An entire life constructed from nothing, solid enough to withstand scrutiny.
“What about before college? High school? Childhood?”
Victoria handed me another folder, thicker than the others. Your entire history, Private schooling in Switzerland. Before that, exclusive boarding schools to shield you from media attention after I adopted you at age ten. Your biological parents, distant relations of mine died in a yacht accident off the coast of Monaco.”
The folder comained school records, newspaper clippings of the accident, adoption papers dated fifteen years ago. Photos of a young girl who resembled me but wasn’t quite right another digital creation.
“The backstory explains your absence from public life,” Victoria said. “You were my closely guarded secret, educated abroad to protect you from those who might exploit our connection. It also explains why you’re only now stepping into the spotlight as my heir.”
I closed the folder, suddenly needing air. The weight of this new identity pressed down, both gift and burden. Freedom and cage.
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“There’s more,” Victoria said, gesturing to the remaining files. “Medical records. Tax filings. Property deeds for apartments in New York and Paris you’ve supposedly owned for years. Even a driving record with a speeding ticket from 2018.”
“The speeding ticket?”
“Authenticity requires imperfection. A life too clean raises questions.”
I stood, moving to the window overlooking Manhattan. Sixty floors below, people scurried like ants, unaware of the fiction being written in this room. A fiction that would soon become my reality.
“Social media?” I asked, knowing the answer already.
“Carefully curated accounts dating back eight years. Limited posts, tasteful photos from global locations, the exact digital footprint one would expect from a private heiress. Our team has been building them slowly, posting backdated content on secure servers.” Η
I turned back to her. “And what about the real me? Camille Lewis? What happens to her records, her accounts, her life?”
Victoria’s face softened, just slightly. “Already managed. Your college records show an unremarkable student who never graduated. Your employment history reflects a series of administrative jobs with long gaps between. Your medical files now include notes about depression and instability.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth. “Making my suicide more believable.”
“Precisely.” Victoria was unapologetic. “The more your disappearance aligns with expectations, the less anyone will question it.”
She pressed a button on her desk phone. “Send in James with the final packet.”
Moments later, a tall man in a dark suit entered carrying a sleek laptop and several files. He nodded respectfully before setting them on the desk.
“The surveillance report, Ms. Kane,” he said to Victoria. “And the social media monitoring as requested.” “Thank you, James. That will be all.”
He departed silently, closing the heavy door behind him.
Victoria opened one of the files, considering its contents before looking up at me. “Are you ready for this?” “Ready for what?”
“To see what your sister and ex–husband have been doing since your… departure.”
My stomach tightened. Part of me wanted to say no, to preserve the numbness I’d carefully cultivated since burying my old life at the cemetery. But the stronger part, the part Victoria was nurturing, needed to see,
“Show the ”
She handed me the Ille. Inside were surveillance photos, dozens of them, crisp and professional. Rose and Stefan walking hand in–hand through an airport. Rose and Stefan dining at a rooftop restaurant. Rose wearing a white sundress on a beach, Stefan kissing her beneath an unbrella
“Their romantic getaway,” Victoria explained unnecessarily. “Santorini. They left three days after your memorial service.”
I stared at the images, waiting for pain that didn’t come. Instead, a cold clarity washed over me. Theuto
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Chapter 11
happy. Carefree. Unburdened by the woman they’d discarded.
“They didn’t even wait a month,” I said, my voice strange to my own ears.
“Grief has its own timeline,” Victoria replied, her tone making it
we thought of their mourning period.
More photos showed them shopping, swimming, posing for selfies with the blue Mediterranean behind them. In each one, Rose looked triumphant. The victor who’d finally claimed her prize.
“There’s more,” Victoria said, opening the laptop. “Social media monitoring”
The screen showed Rose’s I*******m account, newly updated with she and Stefan photos. The caption beneath a sunset picture read: “Finding joy again after unimaginable loss, Camille would have wanted us to be happy. # NewBeginnings #LoveWins”
A laugh escaped me, harsh and unfamiliar. “She’s using my ‘death‘ for likes.”
“Your father commented,” Victoria noted, scrolling down. “So happy you’ve found comfort in each other. Camille is watching over you both.“”
The room seemed to tilt sideways. My parents. The ones who should have questioned everything. Who should have demanded justice, investigation, answers. Instead, they were blessing this union built on betrayal.
“Keep scrolling,” I said, needing to see it all, to burn it into my memory.
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