VICTORIA VANCE — THE LOST HEIRESS

“I fully agree to let the school review the matter again,” I said, calmly, looking straight at Dr. Reeves.

“My private exam room has security cameras, doesn’t it, sir?”

Dr. Reeves nodded.

“Every exam room has surveillance, per academy policy.”

“Then,” I said, “I request that you show the full footage of my exam, in front of the faculty board and Angelina herself.”

Angelina faltered for a moment but quickly recovered her aggrieved expression.

“I never meant to accuse her of needing to watch camera footage,” she said, her voice weak.

“I was only… concerned about fairness for the whole school.”

“Then fairness should begin with evidence,” I replied.

The following afternoon, in the faculty meeting room, before six teachers and the school leadership, the security footage was played on the large screen.

The footage clearly showed me sitting alone in the small exam room, two supervising teachers standing in opposite corners, nothing on the desk but the exam paper and school-stamped scratch paper.

Over the full three hours, I never left my seat for more than thirty seconds, and had no contact whatsoever with the outside.

“The evidence is clear,” Dr. Reeves said sternly, turning to Angelina.

“Miss Vance, I must say that a baseless accusation like this is a serious matter concerning another student’s academic integrity.”

Angelina lowered her head, lips pressed tight, saying nothing.

But the story did not end there.

The school’s IT department, after checking the access logs at my earlier request, found a trace: the cancellation email had been sent from a device whose IP address matched the wifi network in Angelina Vance’s private room, at eleven at night, two days before the exam.

When this was presented to the board, Angelina’s face went pale.

“I… I don’t know anything about that,” she stammered, all her usual confidence gone.

“Maybe someone used my wifi without my knowledge.”

But no one in the room believed that excuse any longer.

On the drive back to Ashbourne Hall after the meeting, I rode in the same car as Julian for the first time since I had moved in.

He stared out the window for most of the journey, then suddenly spoke, his voice pensive.

“I’m sorry for telling you to give in to Angelina,” he said, not looking at me.

“I thought I was protecting the family’s peace, but really I was just enabling a habit that should have been stopped long ago.”

“Thank you for saying that,” I replied, somewhat surprised by this rare candor.

“But I don’t need you to apologize for me sitting an exam on my own merit. I only hope that next time something like this happens, you’ll stand on the side of the truth, not the side of whoever is more familiar to you.”

Julian nodded, said nothing more, but his eyes, reflected in the car window, were no longer as cold as they had been the first days we met.

That evening, when Angelina returned to Ashbourne Hall, I happened to pass by the drawing room and heard Eleanor’s voice, cold and sharp as a thin blade.

“Do you think I don’t know what you did, Angelina?” Eleanor said.

“You tried to harm your own sister to protect your position, and when you were caught, you tried to shift the blame onto someone else. That is not the conduct of a Vance lady.”

“I’m sorry,” Angelina said, sobbing, but this time no one in the room seemed inclined to soften.

Even Edward, who always took Angelina’s side in everything, sat silent, his face heavy, offering no defense of her at all.

I stood outside in the corridor, in the dark, and for the first time since stepping into this house, I felt that justice — however delayed — still existed.

The next day, at the academy, Dr. Reeves summoned the entire final-year class to the main hall to announce the official disciplinary decision against Angelina: suspension of her eligibility for the Kingsley Court honors scholarship for two years, along with a mandatory public letter of apology addressed to the entire faculty board and to me.

Angelina read that letter before the assembly, her voice shaking, unable to meet my eyes.

“I apologize for slandering Victoria,” she read, her tone flat, mechanical.

“I recognize that my actions came from selfishness and the fear of losing the position I once held.”

I accepted the apology with a brief nod, saying nothing further, because I knew that behind those written words, genuine remorse was still a very long way off.

Beatrice and Constance, after the incident, gradually distanced themselves from Angelina, afraid of damaging their own families’ reputations.

Only Priya, perhaps having learned her lesson from the fall on the pitch, was the one member of the old clique who sought me out privately, offering a hesitant but sincere apology before the summer break began.

I realized that not everyone attached to Angelina was truly like her — some had simply lost their way in the same toxic environment, and still had a chance to change.

Three weeks after the scandal at the academy, Ashbourne Hall began preparing for the year’s largest event: the official debut ball of House Vance, marking the return of the lost eldest daughter and the centennial of Vance Holdings.

The whole of English high society, along with numerous families from France, Italy, and the Nordic kingdoms, was invited.

Eleanor personally oversaw every detail, from the menu to the guest list, and I realized this was not merely a party — it was a formal declaration to all of Europe that Victoria Vance had returned, and would be the future heir of Vance Holdings.

Angelina, though still somewhat embarrassed after the academy scandal, quickly regained her usual poise — or at least its outward appearance.

“What will you wear to the ball?” she asked me one afternoon, her tone unusually friendly.

“I could recommend a few designers if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but I already have a dress,” I answered.

In truth, Eleanor had commissioned a gown for me from a fashion house in Milan, a deep navy evening dress, simple yet elegant — not showy, but enough to assert my position.

During those days of preparation, I met Lord Dominic Ashford for the first time, at the ball’s protocol rehearsal.

He was the only son of the Earl of Wrentham, one of the oldest and most influential families in the English aristocracy, and an old schoolfriend of Julian’s from Eton.

“Miss Vance,” he said, bowing in formal greeting, though his eyes held something more sincere than the usual pleasantries.

“I heard about what happened at Kingsley Court. The way you handled it — calm, evidence-based, no need to raise your voice — was truly admirable.”

“Thank you,” I said, somewhat surprised by his frankness.

“I only did what needed to be done.”

“Not everyone can do that under that kind of pressure,” Dominic said.

“Especially in a family like this one.”

“You speak as though you have experience with this,” I remarked.

Dominic was quiet for a moment, then smiled sadly.

“My sister was once slandered by our own cousin in the Ashford family, in a bid to seize the inheritance of our northern estate,” he said.

“No one stood up to defend her at the time, myself included, because I was too young and too frightened to speak up. She had to leave England for years to escape public judgment before the truth finally came out.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So,” Dominic continued, his gaze turning resolute, “I promised myself that if I ever witnessed a similar injustice again, I would never stand by in silence.”

There was something in the way he spoke that made me feel he understood more than he let on.

A few days later, Eleanor called me into her private study, where portraits of past generations of House Vance hung on every wall.

“You’re about to step onto a stage where every eye will scrutinize your every move,” she said, pouring me a cup of tea.

“They will look for weaknesses, for proof that you don’t deserve to be here.”

“I know,” I answered.

“But I don’t intend to play a role. I only intend to be myself.”

Eleanor smiled, pride flickering in her eyes.

“That is exactly what I wanted to hear,” she said.

“There is only one thing I want to caution you about: whatever happens that night, don’t let your emotions take over in front of the cameras. Angelina has prepared something, I can sense it, even without concrete proof yet.”

She did not know I had overheard the phone call in the garden, but a mother’s instinct, even after twenty years apart, was rarely wrong.

The evening before the ball, as I walked in the upper garden to unwind, I overheard Angelina’s voice from behind a row of climbing roses.

She was on the phone, her tone urgent, quite unlike her usual sweetness.

“I’ve got everything ready,” Angelina said, whispering but forceful.

“Just enough to make her lose control in front of everyone. After that, no one will trust that country brat to represent House Vance ever again.”

I stood frozen behind the shrubs, my heart racing.

Angelina was planning to harm me — right at tomorrow’s ball.