Chapter 4 - The Deed of Rose Ashford
Inside the grand library of the north wing, the dust motes danced in the pale shafts of light filtering through the stained-glass windows.
Julian Vance walked in right behind me, abandoning my parents on the porch despite their angry protests. My father was shouting into his cell phone at the family lawyer, while Mother stood outside the heavy doors, refusing to step into what she called "that dusty old museum."
Julian looked around the library in absolute awe. The walls were lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes, historic maps of the valley, and original architectural plans for the entire township.
“Your parents told us the north wing was empty,” Julian said softly, his voice echoing under the high vaulted ceiling. “They told our investment group that all historical deeds had been liquidated during the 2008 bankruptcy.”
“My parents lie when it’s convenient for their lifestyle,” I said.
I walked over to the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. My low heels squeaked against the parquet floor. I pulled the wet oilcloth envelope from my pocket and laid the document inside onto the leather blotter.
It was a original deed of trust, stamped with the seal of the Supreme Court of the State, dated forty years prior.
Julian leaned over the desk, his sharp eyes scanning the calligraphic script. As his eyes reached the third page, his hand tightened around his leather briefcase.
“‘To my granddaughter, Marianne Rose Ashford... the sole title of the land, the mineral rights, and the historic structure known as Ashford Manor... to be held in trust until her twenty-fifth birthday, or until the commercial misuse of the grounds by proxy heirs exceeds legal boundary limits...’” Julian read aloud.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide with profound realization.
“Your twenty-fifth birthday,” Julian murmured. “When was that?”
“Yesterday,” I answered quietly.
Julian let out a low, breathy whistle. “Your father didn't own sixty percent of the estate, Marianne. He owned a temporary management lease that expired the moment you turned twenty-five. Every contract he signed with Vance Financial for the last three years—every wedding rental, every commercial development loan—is completely void without your signature.”
The door behind us slammed open.
Natalie strode into the library, trailing wet flower petals from her crystal-covered gown, her face flushed with rage. She had left her groom and her three hundred guests in the courtyard to come hunt me down.
“Marianne!” Natalie shrieked, her voice echoing violently off the book-lined walls. “What lies are you telling Mr. Vance?! Mother says you’re trying to ruin my wedding reception! Security is on their way right now to drag you off this property!”
I turned around slowly, resting my hands against the mahogany desk.
“Security can’t drag me off my own property, Natalie,” I said.
Natalie laughed—a high, sharp, ugly laugh. “Your property?! You live in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in the industrial district! You drive a ten-year-old hatchback! You’re wearing a sixty-year-old dress that smells like mold and pond water!”
“She’s telling the truth, Miss Ashford,” Julian Vance interrupted, turning to face Natalie with cold, professional authority. “I have just reviewed the original 1984 Ashford Land Covenant. Your sister is the absolute owner of this entire estate. Including the gardens where your wedding reception is currently taking place.”
Natalie froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out for three long seconds. The color drained from her face so fast she looked as white as her wedding gown.
“What?” she gasped. “No... no! Dad sold the garden rights to Vance Financial! They paid for my wedding!”
“They paid your father based on fraudulent ownership claims,” Julian replied coldly, pulling his phone from his coat pocket. “I am calling my firm’s chief legal counsel right now to halt all financial transfers to your father’s accounts.”
Natalie looked from Julian to me, her eyes filled with a terrifying, desperate hatred.
“You did this on purpose,” Natalie spat, taking a step toward me, her manicured nails digging into her bouquet. “You sat there in that stupid blue dress all day, letting everyone laugh at you, just so you could pull this stunt!”
“I didn't choose the timing, Natalie,” I said softly, looking at the water stain on the hem of my dress. “I came here today quiet, humbled, and ready to give you Grandmother’s silver brooch as a wedding present. But you pushed me into the fountain. You decided to turn my existence into a joke in front of three hundred people.”
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I leaned forward across the desk, looking my sister dead in the eye.
“Now,” I said quietly, “the joke is over.”
