Sign the Papers Mr. Langford novel Chapter 334

Meanwhile, The Whitaker Estate was ablaze with lights.

Lydia stood at the end of the second-floor hallway, clutching her phone. Her makeup was still flawless, though fine lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

"Quentin, didn't you say you took care of everything back then?"

The study door was ajar, revealing Quentin inside, his expression dark and thunderous.

"How the hell am I supposed to know where she dug this up?"

"Was it Mrs. Higgins?" Lydia gritted her teeth. "That old hag was always overly attached to Vivian."

Quentin shot her a glare, his tone dripping with irritation. "What's the point of bringing that up now?"

At the other end of the hallway, Willow stood in absolute silence.

She had just returned from seeing Lawrence Langford, still wearing a light-colored coat. The foundation on her neck failed to completely conceal a faint, suggestive mark. She had intended to head upstairs to change, but stopped dead in her tracks the moment she heard the words "Unit 3."

Vivian Vance.

It was always Vivian.

The woman who had been dead for years was like a rusted nail buried in the dirt. No one could see it, but someone was always stepping on it and drawing blood.

Lydia turned and spotted her, the color draining from her face.

"Willow, when did you get back?"

Willow walked over, her voice far calmer than Lydia had anticipated.

"What else is in Unit 3, Mom?"

Lydia's lips twitched.

"Just some old junk."

"Old junk wouldn't make Dad lose his temper like this." Willow looked past her into the study. "Is Wren going there tomorrow?"

Quentin's face was grim, offering no reply.

His silence sent a sinking feeling through Willow's chest.

Growing up, she had witnessed that exact silence far too many times. Quentin favored her and spoiled her rotten, but the moment Vivian was mentioned, his expression always twisted into a mix of revulsion and deep-seated paranoia.

It was as if that dead woman had left behind some damning ledger that could crawl out of the paperwork at any moment.

She had to seize total control of whatever she could.

"Keep a close eye on Wren," she ordered. "Who she meets, which unit she goes into, what she takes—record every single detail."

The assistant complied.

Willow hung up, then, remembering a crucial detail, shot off a quick follow-up text.

Don't alert her.

Message sent, she slammed the phone face-down on her vanity.

Outside her window, the night was pitch-black. The ancient osmanthus tree in the garden swayed gently in the breeze. When they were kids, Wren would always stand under that tree, waiting for Vivian to come home. Willow used to hide behind the curtains and watch her, day after day.

She had been too young back then to understand the concept of jealousy.

All she knew was that Wren had a mother to wait for.

Meanwhile, she and Lydia were forced to wait for someone else to grant them a place in the world.

But now, she was entirely done waiting.