Chapter 5 - The Architect of Lies
The phone rang four times before a deep, gravelly voice answered with brisk authority.
“Marcus Vance.”
I took a deep breath, steadying the tremor in my chest. “Mr. Vance, my name is Jenna Carter. I’m calling from Canton, Ohio. I’m contacting you regarding a woman named Delilah Cole, who is currently operating under the name Lila Vance.”
The silence on the line was instant and heavy. When Marcus Vance spoke again, his tone was dangerously quiet.
“Who gave you this number?”
“I’m a legal assistant at Miller & Sterling,” I replied, keeping my professional cadence rock solid. “More importantly, Delilah Cole is marrying my brother Mark on Saturday afternoon. She has told our entire community, our family, and the local vendors that she is your niece and the beneficiary of a Vance family trust.”
A harsh, bitter laugh rumbled through the speaker.
“Delilah Cole is the daughter of my former groundskeeper,” Marcus Vance said, his words sharp as a scalpel. “She worked as a junior receptionist at my firm four years ago until she forged my signature on a three-hundred-thousand-dollar commercial lease. She fled Illinois two steps ahead of a grand jury subpoena.”
My jaw clenched. She wasn't just a petty con artist. She was a professional parasite.
“She’s about to put a lien on my brother’s home to pay off a sixty-thousand-dollar debt to her ex-husband,” I said. “Can you provide certified documentation of the fraud warrant?”
“Miss Carter, I can do better than that,” Marcus Vance replied, his voice dropping into something cold and lethal. “My corporate legal counsel has been trying to serve Delilah with an asset freeze order for nine months. She changes addresses every ninety days and uses burner entities. Where is this wedding taking place?”
“The Grandview Manor Estate. Saturday, two o’clock.”
“Consider it handled. I will have a courier deliver certified copies of the Cook County grand jury indictment and her real birth records directly to your firm tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vance.”
“Don’t thank me, kid,” he said coldly. “Just make sure she doesn't leave that church before my people get there.”
I hung up, my adrenaline surging. The noose was tightening.
The next morning, Friday, I took an emergency personal day from work. When the courier envelope arrived at my apartment at 9:15 a.m., I tore it open.
Inside were forty pages of pure poison for Delilah Cole.
Birth certificate: *Delilah Mae Jenkins*.
Father: Harold Jenkins, deceased landscaper.
Mother: Patricia Jenkins, living in a state-run facility in Peoria.
There was no family trust. No high-society upbringing. There were, however, two prior marriages—one annulled for fraud at age nineteen, and her three-year marriage to Darren Cole, which had ended in a swamp of debt and stolen company funds.
And then, tucked into the back of the folder, was the smoking gun: a copy of an irrevocable power of attorney form dated three days ago, granting Delilah Vance full control over Mark Carter’s bank accounts, retirement fund, and home deed upon the solemnization of their marriage.
Mark had already signed it.
He hadn't read the fine print. He had signed it thinking it was a standard pre-marital asset declaration for her imaginary trust fund. The moment the officiant signed that marriage certificate, Lila legally owned everything Mark had worked fifteen years to build.
My phone rang. It was Mark.
I hesitated, then swiped to answer. “Mark?”
“Jenna,” his voice sounded frantic, background noise buzzing with wedding chaos. “Look… I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn't have yelled at you. Lila feels awful about the misunderstanding with Grandma. She really does.”
I closed my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. “Does she, Mark?”
“Yes! In fact, she wants to make it up to Grandma. She invited Grandma to come to the rehearsal dinner tonight at the country club. She even asked if Grandma could bring those famous almond cookies she makes. She wants to feature them on the head table as a tribute.”
A sickening chill swept down my spine.
Lila didn't want to make amends. Lila never did anything without an angle.
“Grandma isn't baking anything else for Lila, Mark,” I said flatly.
“Jenna, stop being so bitter!” Mark snapped, his defensive wall instantly slamming back up. “Grandma already said yes! She’s baking them right now! Why can’t you just let us be happy?”
He hung up before I could reply.
I dropped my phone onto the desk. Grandma was baking *again*.
Why would Lila, who had just sneered at Grandma’s amateur baking twenty-four hours ago, suddenly want Grandma’s cookies at an exclusive, high-society rehearsal dinner?
May you like
I grabbed my car keys. I had to get to Grandma’s house before Lila made her next move.
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