Chapter 4 - The Inspector's Eye
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At precisely ten o'clock on Thursday morning, an unannounced black sedan pulled into the circular driveway of the Vale estate.
Arthur Pendleton, the court-appointed senior probate investigator, stepped out holding a thick leather dossier under his arm.
Pendleton was a ruthless seventy-year-old bureaucrat with wire-rimmed glasses who took sadistic pleasure in revoking fraudulent inheritances.
Victor had clearly filed an anonymous complaint alleging that Roman's marriage was an unconsummated sham designed to circumvent the will.
Clara stood at the living room window, watching the old man march toward the front entrance like an executioner.
Behind her, Roman stood buttoning his navy suit jacket, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped under his skin.
"Clara," Roman said, his voice unusually strained as he approached her side.
"He has the legal authority to inspect every room in this house, including the private living quarters."
"I know," Clara replied, turning around with complete composure.
"I moved my luggage, my cosmetics, and my clothing into your master bedroom two hours ago."
Roman paused, surprise flashing through his guarded eyes.
"You did that?"
"The contract stipulates that I must protect your inheritance from probate challenges," she said, her voice remaining strictly professional.
"I do not leave loose threads for investigators to pull."
The heavy brass doorbell rang through the vaulted foyer, and the butler opened the massive oak doors.
Arthur Pendleton entered without greeting the staff, his sharp eyes scanning the high ceilings and the framed family portraits.
"Mr. Vale, Mrs. Vale," Pendleton announced coldly, pulling a fountain pen from his pocket.
"The probate court has received formal notice challenging the legitimacy of your domestic cohabitation."
"My grandfather's terms were clear, Mr. Pendleton," Roman said, stepping forward with his usual executive authority.
"My wife and I share this home as a bona fide marital unit."
"Words are cheap, Mr. Vale," Pendleton muttered, adjusting his glasses.
"I require a comprehensive walkthrough of the premises, beginning with the primary residential suite."
Clara led the way up the sweeping grand staircase without a trace of hesitation.
She opened the double doors to Roman's private master bedroom, revealing a space that had been meticulously arranged.
Her silver brush sat next to his monogrammed cufflink box on the polished mahogany dresser.
Her silk nightgown hung inside the walk-in closet beside his tailored morning suits.
A pair of her worn reading slippers sat neatly beside his leather wingback chair near the fireplace.
Pendleton examined the bathroom, checking the medicine cabinet for dual toiletries and observing the damp towel on the rack.
He turned to Clara, squinting skeptically through his thick lenses.
"Mrs. Vale, where did your husband spend Tuesday evening between nine o'clock and midnight?"
"He was downstairs in the second-floor study reviewing quarterly logistics manifests," Clara answered without blinking.
"He drank two cups of black coffee, took three phone calls from Singapore, and came up to bed at twelve-fifteen."
Pendleton flipped a page on his clipboard, frowning as her answer matched the digital security logs he held.
"And what brand of tea do you drink when you return from the county courthouse?"
"Cinnamon spice from the market on Third Street," Roman answered immediately, stepping up behind Clara.
"She drinks it with half a spoon of clover honey, and she leaves the mug on the nightstand."
Clara felt Roman’s shoulder press against hers, solid and protective, but she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.
Pendleton closed his leather dossier with a heavy snap, clearly disappointed that he had found no grounds for disqualification.
"Everything appears to be in strict legal order for the moment," Pendleton announced, turning toward the stairs.
"However, the court retains the right to conduct subsequent inspections until the twelfth month concludes."
After the front door closed and Pendleton’s car disappeared down the oak-lined drive, Roman let out a long, ragged breath.
"Thank you, Clara," he whispered, turning toward her in the quiet master suite.
"You saved the company today."
Clara stepped away from his side, creating three feet of cold, empty distance between them.
May you like
"I did not do it for you, Roman," she said, looking out at the gray ocean waves.
"I did it because Clara Whitmore always honors her signed contracts."
