In court, my stepmother swore and said, “She can’t handle this. She needs a guardian.” I remained calm. The judge took off her glasses and said, “You really don’t know who she is?” Her lawyer turned pale. My stepmother was speechless…

“Correct.”

Mason laughed under his breath. “She doesn’t oversee anything.”

Judge Maren lifted one finger.

Instant silence.

Mr. Bell continued. “We also have testimony from household staff confirming Miss Vale behaved erratically after Mr. Vale’s death. She argued with Mrs. Vale. She accused family members of theft.”

Vivian lowered her head gracefully. “I forgave her. Grief can make people cruel.”

I watched her perform sorrow the way actors perform royalty: elegant, rehearsed, empty.

My father married Vivian when I was sixteen years old. She entered our home wearing expensive perfume, silk gloves, and a talent for discovering where every lock was hidden. By the time I left for law school, she had replaced the housekeeper, the accountant, and eventually even my father’s nurse.