The Rich Couple's Shocking Discovery About the Orphan Girl's Birthmark

The Director's Last Scream Carries a Name

The guards had Madame Vane by the arms, but she was twisting, fighting, her gold spectacles askew. "You're making a terrible mistake," she spat. "That child is nothing. She's a foundling. She has no family."

Marcus Vance stood, still holding Clara close, his eyes dark as thunder. "She has a family. She has us. And you are going to prison for what you did to her."

Madame Vane laughed—a shrill, desperate sound. "Prison? You think you can scare me? I have powerful friends, Mr. Vance. People who paid me to keep quiet. People who paid me to keep her hidden."

Clara Vance stiffened. "What do you mean, keep her hidden?"

The director's smile turned sly. "You think you're the only ones who wanted this child? You think that little birthmark is a coincidence?" She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Your own mother paid me to keep the brat away from you."

The room went silent.

Clara Vance felt the floor fall away beneath her. "My mother? That's impossible. She died two years ago."

"She died," Madame Vane said, "but her money didn't. She paid me every month, in cash, to make sure you never found the girl. She said it was for your own good. She said the child was cursed."

Marcus's face went pale. "Why would she do that?"

Madame Vane shrugged, a sickening casualness in her voice. "Ask her yourself. She's not dead, Mr. Vance. She's in a private hospital in Switzerland. Under a different name, of course. But I have the papers."

Clara Vance's knees buckled. She grabbed the edge of the settee to steady herself. "My mother is alive?"

"Alive and rich and very good at keeping secrets," Madame Vane said. "She paid me to take your daughter the night she was born. She paid me to give you a fake death certificate. She paid me to make sure you never, ever found her."

The little girl in Marcus's arms looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Is she bad?" she whispered. "The lady who paid?"

Marcus didn't know how to answer. He looked at his wife, and he saw the same shock, the same fury, the same grief reflected in her eyes.

"No," Clara Vance said, finding her voice. "She's not bad. She's just... broken. Like everyone else."

She knelt down in front of her daughter, taking the girl's small hands in hers. "Listen to me, sweetheart. Your name is Clara Vance. You have a family that loves you. And no one—no one—is ever going to take you away from us again."

Clara nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I have a family," she repeated, as if testing the words.

"Yes, you do," Clara Vance said. "And we're going to find out the truth. All of it."

She stood up, her eyes hard as flint. "Madame Vane, you're going to give us every name, every payment, every record. And then you're going to rot in a cell for the rest of your life."

The director opened her mouth to argue, but the guards were already dragging her away.

"Wait!" she screamed. "You can't do this! I have rights!"

"You have none," Marcus said. "Take her."

The doors slammed shut, and for a moment, the reception room was silent.

Clara Vance turned to her husband, her eyes brimming with tears. "Marcus, my mother. If she's alive, then..."

"Then we're going to Switzerland," he said. "And we're going to get some answers."

He looked down at the little girl in his arms, and his expression softened. "But first, we're going home."

Clara smiled, a small, fragile smile. "Home," she repeated.

"Yes," her mother said. "Home."

And for the first time in her life, Clara felt like she belonged somewhere.