A Crown of Broken Glass

Chapter 1

Aria

The door clicks shut behind me, the sound as final as a vault sealing. Twenty pairs of expensive eyes fix on me, dissecting my five thousand dollar dress, my carefully styled hair, the calculated tremor in my hands. The boardroom of Sterling Industries is a cathedral of glass and steel overlooking the city, and I am the sacrificial lamb. Or, perhaps, the ghost at the feast.

“So. You’re here.” The voice belongs to a man with a shock of white hair and a face like a collapsed souffle. Arthur Kensington, board member. Eighty years old and still clinging to power like it’s a life raft.

I offer a small, hesitant smile. The kind of smile that says I’m fragile, that I might break. It’s a lie, of course. I don’t break. I calculate. I dismantle. “I am. It’s… a lot to take in.”

The air is thick with the scent of old money, leather, and predatory intent. My gaze sweeps the room, cataloging faces I’ve spent the last six months memorizing from photographs. Skeptical allies, outright enemies, and two men who matter more than all the others combined. My eyes land on him first. Caleb Vance. My cousin. He leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. He looks every bit the corporate prince, from his tailored suit to the smug glint in his eyes. Those are the eyes I remember from my father’s nightmares. His father’s eyes.

“Welcome home, cousin,” Caleb says, his voice dripping with insincere charm. “Or should I say, welcome back to the land of the living? We weren’t sure you’d remember the way to the office.”

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter circles the long mahogany table. There it is. The opening salvo. The dopamine tease begins now. The raw, visceral need to see that smirk wiped from his face is a fire in my gut. It’s the fuel for this whole insane plan.

I let my lower lip tremble just so. “The doctors said there would be gaps. Big ones. But the name Sterling… that, I remembered. It felt like coming home.” I touch the simple gold locket at my throat, a prop Marcus insisted on. It’s my anchor, a tangible piece of the lie.

Caleb’s eyes narrow. He wants a fight. He wants me to be an imposter, a fraud he can expose and discard. He has no idea how right he is, or how badly he’s underestimated me.

Then, I feel another gaze. Colder. Sharper. It cuts through the noise of the room and pins me in place. Mason Trent. The Chief Operating Officer. He sits at the opposite end of the table from the chairman’s empty seat, my seat. He hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t need to. His silence is louder than Caleb’s taunts. He watches me with an unnerving stillness, his dark eyes giving nothing away. He’s not a prince like Caleb. He’s a king in a self imposed exile, observing the board as if it’s a game of chess he’s already won. My file on him was thick, but the man himself is a cipher. He is the one vAriable I can’t control.

“Anastasia,” Arthur Kensington grunts, pulling my attention back. “Your grandfather, God rest his soul, left strict instructions. Your return activates your claim to his seat and his controlling shares. This meeting is a formality to welcome you to the board.” The word ‘welcome’ sounds like a curse on his tongue.

“I appreciate the warm reception,” I say, my voice soft. Vulnerable. I need them to see a lost girl, not a threat. “I know this is sudden for everyone. It’s sudden for me. One day I’m… well, I’m not sure where I was. The next, I’m here. With a past I don’t recognize and a future I’m not sure I’m ready for.”

I can feel the shift in the room. A few of the older members soften. Pity is a powerful weapon. Caleb, however, leans forward, placing his elbows on the polished table. He’s not buying it.

“How convenient,” he says, his voice a low drawl meant to carry. “A bump on the head and ten years of wandering the wilderness, only to reappear the moment grandfather’s will is read. The timing is, you must admit, impeccable.”

“Caleb,” a woman with severe black hair warns. His mother, presumably. Another viper in the nest.

“What? We’re all thinking it,” he insists, his eyes locked on mine. “So tell us, Anastasia. What’s the last thing you remember? Before your grand reappearance, of course. We’re all dying to know what life is like for a billionaire with amnesia.”

This is the moment. The rage baiter has set his trap. My pulse is a steady, slow drum. I don’t feel anger. I feel a cold, clear purpose. He thinks he’s cornering me. He’s just giving me a stage.

I look down at my hands, clasped in my lap. I let a tear escape, tracing a single, glittering path down my cheek. I practiced this in the mirror a hundred times. The key is to let it fall, not to wipe it away. Wiping it away is defiance. Letting it fall is surrender.

“I remember… flashes,” I whisper, my voice cracking perfectly. “Cold. The smell of pine needles. I remember being afraid. I don’t remember my name. Or my father’s face. I just remember a feeling. Like I’d lost everything that ever mattered.”

My father’s face. I see it every time I close my eyes. Gaunt and broken after the Vances ruined him, stole his life’s work, and left him with nothing. The memory is so sharp it’s a physical pain. I channel it, letting the real grief bleed into the performance.

“I didn’t know who I was, where I came from. The people who found me… they were kind. I lived in a small community. Simple. Quiet. I didn’t know about Sterling Industries. I didn’t know about any of this until a private investigator showed up with a photograph.”

It’s a beautiful story. Marcus crafted it himself. A trail of breadcrumbs leading to a secluded commune in Oregon, complete with forged records and paid witnesses. A tragic tale of a lost soul finding peace in anonymity. Caleb can dig all he wants. All he’ll find is the legend we built.

I look up, meeting his mocking gaze directly. “I’m sorry if my timing is inconvenient for you, Caleb. But I didn’t choose this. It chose me. I’m just trying to… remember who I’m supposed to be.”

The performance is flawless. I see it in the sympathetic glances, the slight nods. I’ve won the room. All except for one.

Mason Trent still watches me, his expression unreadable. His gaze isn’t sympathetic. It isn’t hostile. It’s analytical. He’s not watching a lost heiress. He’s watching a predator that has just entered his territory. He sees something the others don’t. Or maybe I’m just projecting. The man is a statue carved from ice and ambition.

“Enough,” Arthur says, clearing his throat. “The girl has been through enough. Let’s move on to the quarterly reports. The acquisition of OmniCore.”

Caleb scoffs but leans back, temporarily defeated. He shoots me a look that promises this is far from over.

Good. I’m counting on it.

For the next hour, they talk numbers. Projections, acquisitions, market shares. It’s a language I know better than they think. Marcus drilled me for months, turning me into a walking database of Sterling Industries’ finances. I remain silent, playing the part of the overwhelmed, grieving heiress. I let my eyes glaze over, my posture slump just a little, every inch the out of place porcelain doll.

“The primary issue with OmniCore is their decentralized server infrastructure,” Caleb says, preening for the board. “Their security protocols are a mess. Integrating them into our system will require a complete overhaul, a project that my department estimates will cost north of fifty million and take at least two quarters.”

He’s showing off. Establishing his authority. Trying to prove how indispensable he is and how useless I am.

“A costly but necessary endeavor,” Arthur agrees, nodding sagely.

I wait for the perfect pause. Then, I speak, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You could bypass the integration.”

Every head swivels in my direction. The sudden silence is deafening. Caleb looks at me as if I’ve just grown a second head.

“I’m sorry?” he says, dripping with condescension. “Did you have something to add, Anastasia? A brilliant business insight from your time weaving baskets in the woods?”

I ignore him, looking directly at Arthur Kensington. “OmniCore’s greatest asset isn’t their infrastructure. It’s their patent on predictive data modeling. It’s revolutionary. You don’t need to absorb their messy system. You could run their algorithms as a closed loop on a secure cloud server, a virtual sandbox. It would give you all of the benefit with none of the security risks. And it would cost a fraction of fifty million.”

I let the words hang in the air. The details are courtesy of Marcus, fed to me through an earpiece so small it’s undetectable. But the delivery, the timing, that’s all me.

Caleb is speechless. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. He looks utterly, completely dumbfounded. The sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it is a drug. This is why I’m here. For moments exactly like this. To watch the architect of my family’s pain crumble under the weight of his own arrogance.

Arthur Kensington stares at me, his bushy white eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “A virtual sandbox…” he murmurs, intrigued.

Across the table, something flickers in Mason Trent’s eyes. It’s not approval. It’s not surprise. It’s… recognition. It’s the look of a grandmaster seeing an unexpected, clever move from a new opponent. And it terrifies me more than anything else in this room.

He leans forward slightly, his first movement of the entire meeting. His voice is low, a gravelly baritone that commands attention without trying. “An interesting proposal. Where did you learn about sandboxing protocol, Anastasia?”

His question is a scalpel, precise and dangerous. Caleb accused me with a sledgehammer. Mason probes with a surgeon’s skill.

I lower my eyes again, feigning shyness. “I… read a lot. In the community. We had a library. Mostly old books, but someone donated a collection of tech magazines. I always found them… logical. A comfort, I suppose. When you don’t have memories, it’s nice when things just make sense. Follow rules.”

The lie is thin, but it’s the best I can do. Caleb seems to recover, sensing a weakness.

“Tech magazines,” he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “We’re supposed to bet the future of this company on something you read in a magazine?”

“It’s a valid strategic alternative worth exploring,” Mason says, his voice cutting across Caleb’s. His gaze is still on me. He isn’t defending me. He’s merely stating a fact. But it silences Caleb instantly. For the first time, I understand where the real power in this room lies. It’s not in the Sterling name or the Vance ambition. It’s in the quiet, unnerving competence of Mason Trent.

The meeting wraps up soon after. I’ve survived. I’ve drawn first blood. I can feel the shift. I am no longer just a ghost. I am a player. As the board members begin to file out, muttering amongst themselves, I stand on shaky legs. Part of the act, mostly genuine adrenaline.

“A remarkable first day, cousin,” Caleb says, stopping beside my chair. His smile is gone, replaced by a cold, hard glare. “Don’t get comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say softly, meeting his gaze. For just a second, I let a flicker of the real me show. A hint of steel beneath the porcelain. I see the surprise in his eyes before he turns and storms out.

Soon, the room is empty. Except for him.

Mason Trent remains seated, watching me from across the expanse of polished wood. The setting sun glints off the glass walls, casting long shadows. He hasn’t moved. I feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.

I gather my purse, my movements slow and deliberate. I should go. I need to get out of here, call Marcus, and breathe. But I can’t seem to move. His stare holds me captive.

Finally, he rises. He is taller than I thought, broad shouldered in his perfectly cut dark suit. He walks toward me, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne. It smells like cedar and cold winter air.

He says nothing. He just looks at me. He’s searching for something. Looking past the expensive dress, the lost girl act, the carefully constructed lies. He’s looking for the truth.

My heart, which was so steady before, begins to pound against my ribs. Caleb is a snake. I know how to handle snakes. You charm them or you cut off their heads. But Mason Trent… he’s something else entirely. He’s a wolf. And he knows, somehow, that I am not one of the sheep.

After what feels like an eternity, he gives a single, almost imperceptible nod, and walks out of the room without a word.

I finally exhale, the breath I didn’t realize I was holding rattling in my chest. I lean against the table for support, my legs suddenly weak. The dopamine rush of putting Caleb in his place is gone, replaced by a chilling, profound sense of danger. I came here to hunt a snake. I think I just found a dragon.

Chapter 2

Mason

The image on the monitor is crystal clear. Forty two inches of high definition deceit. I rewind the security feed for the third time. Her, ‘Anastasia’, looking down at her hands, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. The performance is exquisite. The tremor in her voice, the feigned vulnerability. A masterpiece of manipulation.

My office is silent, a sterile space of glass, chrome, and black leather. It overlooks the city from the opposite side of the tower, a world away from the mahogany and old money of the boardroom. I prefer it this way. Fewer ghosts.

The only sound is the low hum of the server rack in the wall and the soft click of my mouse. Click. Rewind. Play.

“I’m sorry if my timing is inconvenient for you, Caleb.”

Her voice fills the quiet room. Even filtered through the monitor’s speakers, it has a strange quality. A layer of practiced softness over something hard as diamond. Caleb bought it. The old guard on the board bought it. They saw a lost little girl.

I see a professional.

My thumb traces the rim of my empty coffee cup. I know she is an imposter. The knowledge is not a suspicion. It is a cold, hard fact resting in my gut like a shard of ice. A fact I alone possess.

My mind drifts back two years. The scent of rain soaked earth and pine. The incessant buzz of insects in the humid air of the Cascade mountains. I found her. The real Anastasia Sterling. She was at the bottom of a ravine, tangled in the undergrowth, her body broken by the fall. A stupid, reckless hike in a coming storm. A selfish pursuit of a thrill that ended, as all her pursuits did, in disaster.

I stood there in the rain, her grandfather’s last words echoing in my head. ‘Protect my legacy, Mason. Protect the company.’

Anastasia wasn’t the legacy. She was a liability. A spoiled, unstable girl who cared more for headlines than shareholder reports. Her death, made public, would have triggered a feeding frenzy. Robert and Caleb Vance would have used the succession crisis to tear the company apart, selling it for scrap to the highest bidder. They had been waiting for years.

So I made a choice. I called my head of security, a man whose loyalty is to me, not the name on the building. We made it look like she simply vanished. Disappeared on one of her many impulsive trips. We planted a trail that went cold in Europe, paid off the right people, and let the mystery fade into a sad family tragedy.

For two years, the ghost of Anastasia Sterling has been a useful tool. A placeholder that kept the Vances at bay. I have been fighting them alone, a silent war in boardrooms and back channels, holding the line for a legacy her own blood would happily destroy.

And now this. Another ghost. A better one.

I fast forward the feed to the moment she spoke about OmniCore. I lean closer to the screen, watching her eyes. There is no confusion there. No lucky guess from a tech magazine.

“You could run their algorithms as a closed loop on a secure cloud server, a virtual sandbox.”

It was a brilliant gambit. Perfectly timed. Utterly humiliating for Caleb. It wasn’t just the content of her suggestion, but the delivery. The feigned shyness, the quiet confidence. She didn’t just offer a solution. She established a new persona in a single move. Not just the lost heiress, but a misunderstood, underestimated savant.

My desk phone buzzes, a soft, insistent tone. I glance at the caller ID. David Chen. My head of security.

“Talk to me,” I say, my eyes still on the frozen image of her face on the screen.

“She’s in the penthouse. Hasn’t left. Made one call from a burner phone, untraceable. Lasted four minutes. No other activity.”

A burner phone. Of course. A lost girl with amnesia who knows about encrypted communication. The fascination I feel is a dangerous, unfamiliar thing. It’s like watching a leopard wander into a sheep pen. I am not worried for the sheep. I am intrigued by the leopard.

“The background check we ran on the Oregon commune?” I ask.

“Ironclad,” David replies. “Forged records are perfect. Paid witnesses are well rehearsed. It’s a work of art. Whoever built this legend for her is as good as you are.”

That is high praise. And deeply unsettling.

“Keep the surveillance active,” I say. “Visual and audio in the penthouse. Non invasive for now. I want to know who she talks to, what she eats for breakfast, and what she reads before she goes to sleep. I want to know everything.”

“Understood. What’s the objective, Mason? Are we exposing her?”

I watch the woman on the screen. The way she met Caleb’s glare with that carefully crafted vulnerability. The flicker of steel I saw in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. The way her gaze met mine at the end of the meeting, a silent acknowledgment that we were not what we seemed. She wasn’t looking at a COO. She was looking at a threat. At a player.

Caleb is a blunt instrument. His father, Robert, is a cancer, slowly poisoning the company from within. I have been fighting them with spreadsheets and corporate law. It’s like trying to kill a dragon with a letter opener.

This woman, this brilliant imposter, she is not a letter opener. She is a sword.

“No, David,” I say, a decision solidifying in my mind. “We’re not exposing her. Not yet.”

“What are we doing?”

“We’re watching the show.”

I end the call and lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. The real Anastasia Sterling would have been Caleb’s puppet within a week. She would have been manipulated, flattered, and controlled until the Vances had everything they wanted.

This woman is no one’s puppet. She arrived with a plan. She has a target. And that target, I am willing to bet a fifty million dollar acquisition, is Caleb Vance.

She thinks I am an obstacle. Another piece of the old guard she has to manage or deceive. She has no idea that I am the only person in this building who knows her secret. She has no idea that her greatest threat could be her most powerful ally.

For two years, I have been playing defense, holding the company together with secrecy and sheer force of will. It has been exhausting. It has been a lonely, thankless war.

But now, a new piece is on the board. A wild card. A ghost with an agenda. She is audacious. She is skilled. She is utterly, dangerously compelling.

I am not threatened by her. I am not angry that she is defiling the Sterling name. The real Anastasia did a fine job of that herself.

No, what I feel is a cold, sharp thrill. The kind a grandmaster feels when a novice makes a move so unexpected, so brilliant, it changes the entire game.

She wants to take down Caleb Vance. She wants to play the part of Anastasia Sterling, the returned heiress. I will let her. I will watch her every move, analyze her every word. I will give her just enough rope to see what she does with it.

Because if she can shatter Caleb’s arrogance, if she can disrupt the balance of power that has been slowly strangling this company, then she might be more valuable as an imposter than the real Anastasia ever was alive.

Let them think a ghost has come home to claim her inheritance. A lost little girl in a five thousand dollar dress.

I know what she is. She is a weapon. And she is pointed directly at my enemies. It’s time to see what she can do.

I turn off the monitor, plunging the office into the cool twilight. The game has begun. And for the first time in a long time, I am not entirely sure how it will end.

Chapter 3

Aria

The ballroom at the Sterling estate is a galaxy of crystal and lies. Chandeliers drip light onto a sea of tailored suits and silk dresses. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the quiet hum of gossip. Every smile is a negotiation. Every handshake is an appraisal. I am the evening’s main exhibit.

“To Anastasia,” a man with a booming voice and a ruddy face toasts, raising his champagne flute. “Welcome home.”

The chorus of ‘welcome home’ echoes around me. I feel like a ghost haunting my own party. I offer the same fragile smile I perfected in the boardroom. It seems to be working. Pity is a far more effective shield than armor.

I’ve been circulating for an hour, a masterpiece of remembered details and fabricated emotions. Marcus’s voice has been a steady whisper in my ear, feeding me names, connections, and reminders. ‘Arthur Kensington to your left, hates his son in law. Eleanor Sterling is by the fireplace. Approach with caution.’

Then, I see him. Caleb cuts through the crowd like a shark, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He has two older women in tow, family members whose names I instantly recall from my files. Great Aunts. Matriarchs of minor branches, but their opinions hold weight.

“Anastasia, darling,” Caleb says, his voice a silken trap. “Aunt Carol and Aunt Beatrice were just reminiscing about the summers at the lake house. You must remember those.”

He’s starting. The public interrogation.

“Flashes,” I say, touching my temple lightly. “I remember the water. The smell of the pine trees after it rained.”

“She remembers the smell of the pines,” Caleb says to the aunts, a note of mocking wonder in his voice. “But do you remember the name of your pony? The little Shetland you adored so much. You called him…” He lets the sentence hang, waiting for me to fall into his trap.

My heart beats a steady rhythm. This was in the files. A deep dive into old family photo albums. The pony’s name was Patches. But a girl with amnesia wouldn’t just know that.

I look at him, my eyes wide and searching. “Was it… something silly? I have this feeling it was a child’s name for something. Like… Buttons? Or Socks?”

One of the aunts, Beatrice, claps her hands together softly. “Oh, she was so close! It was Patches, dear. Because of the spots on his back. You were inseparable from that animal.”

I let a slow, sad smile touch my lips. “Patches. Of course. It feels… familiar. Thank you for reminding me.”

Caleb’s smile tightens. Round one to me. He expected me to know it perfectly or not at all. The near miss was the perfect move. It builds the character. A mind trying to heal, not a con artist with a script.

“Your memory is a fascinating thing, isn’t it?” he pushes, unwilling to let it go. “So selective.”

Before I can respond, a new voice cuts through, calm and laced with authority. “All memory is selective, Caleb. I find I conveniently forget most of the things you say by lunchtime.”

Eleanor Sterling stands before us. The true queen of this court. She is tall and elegant, her silver hair coiled perfectly, her eyes the color of a winter sky. They miss nothing. She turns those eyes on me.

“Anastasia,” she says. Her voice is not warm, but it is not unkind. It is… assessing. “You look like your mother.”

“So I’ve been told,” I say softly. “Though I don’t remember her face.”

This is the truth. My own mother, not Anastasia’s. The grief I channel is real, a raw resource I can tap at will. It gives my performance the weight of authenticity.

“She was a good woman. Too gentle for this family,” Eleanor says, her gaze flickering to Caleb for a fraction of a second. It’s all the confirmation I need. She knows exactly what her grandson is.

She places a cool, dry hand on my arm. “Walk with me, child.”

It’s not a request. I cast a brief, victorious glance at Caleb, whose face has soured, and let the matriarch lead me toward the French doors that open onto a stone terrace.

The cool night air is a relief. Below us, the gardens are a maze of sculpted hedges and glowing lanterns.

“He will not stop,” Eleanor says, looking out at the city lights. “Caleb sees your return as a threat to his inheritance. To his ambition.”

“I don’t want to be a threat to anyone,” I lie. “I just want to understand who I am.”

“Do you?” she asks, turning to face me. Her eyes are sharp, analytical. This is a different kind of test. Not of facts, but of substance. “Your grandfather was a difficult man. He built an empire, but he broke people to do it. His own son included. He valued loyalty above all else. Tell me, Anastasia, what do you value?”

The question hangs in the air between us. Marcus didn’t prepare me for this. This isn’t in a file or a photograph. This is about soul. I give her the only real answer I have.

“A second chance,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “To have a family. To have a name that means something. To feel… safe.”

The last word comes out with a slight tremor. It’s not an act. For the first time tonight, the mask slips, and the scared girl who lost everything is the one speaking.

Eleanor studies my face for a long moment. I feel stripped bare, certain I have failed. Then, a hint of softness enters her eyes. She reaches up and touches the locket at my throat.

“This was your grandmother’s,” she says. “She would be glad to see it home.” She pats my hand. “You have more of her in you than I thought. She was a survivor too.”

She has given me her blessing. It’s a victory more significant than any financial report, a shield stronger than any lie. As we turn to go back inside, I see him. Mason Trent. He stands near the bar, holding a glass of what looks like whiskey, watching us. His face is unreadable, a mask of cold neutrality. But his eyes follow every move I make. He is not a guest at this party. He is a sentinel on the wall.

My brief moment of triumph evaporates, replaced by that familiar, chilling unease. He is the one person here who doesn’t seem to be buying a single word I’m selling.

Caleb corners me again near the grand piano, his frustration making him reckless. He is no longer trying to be subtle.

“This is absurd,” he hisses, keeping his voice low so only I can hear. “The lost princess returns, and everyone just falls at her feet. You can fool the old sentimentalists, but not me.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone, Caleb.”

“Aren’t you?” He takes a step closer, his cologne cloying and aggressive. “Alright, let’s try another memory. A more recent one. Just before you… disappeared. Grandfather wrote you a letter. He told me he enclosed a specific stock tip, a private test of your business sense. What was the company, Anastasia?”

Ice floods my veins. Nothing. My mind is a blank wall. There was no mention of a letter in any of the diaries, any of the emails Marcus managed to recover. Nothing. It’s a perfect trap because it’s information that could only exist between two people, one of whom is dead.

My mouth goes dry. For the first time, the script is gone. The safety net has vanished. I have nothing.

Caleb’s eyes glitter with triumph. He sees my panic. He leans in for the kill.

“Cat got your tongue, cousin? Or should I say, the cat never had it to begin with.”

My pulse hammers in my ears. The sounds of the party fade into a dull roar. This is it. This is where it all comes crashing down.

“Caleb.”

The voice is low and sharp. It cuts through my panic like a razor. Mason Trent has moved from the bar. He is standing a few feet away, next to a portly man with a flushed face, one of the company’s biggest institutional investors.

“Mr. Davison was just telling me about the issues with the port authority in Singapore,” Mason says, his gaze fixed on Caleb. His tone is conversational, but it holds the weight of a command. “It’s jeopardizing the Q4 shipping forecast. As head of logistics, I imagine you have a contingency plan you can share with us.”

It’s a masterstroke. A direct, public challenge to Caleb’s competence in front of a major investor. It is an interruption so perfectly targeted that Caleb cannot possibly ignore it. To do so would be to admit incompetence.

Caleb’s head whips toward Mason, his face a mask of fury. He is trapped. He has to disengage from me. He glares at Mason, then at me, a silent promise of retribution in his eyes.

“Of course,” Caleb says through gritted teeth. “Davison. Let’s find a quieter place to discuss the… forecast.”

He turns and walks away with the investor, throwing one last venomous look over his shoulder.

I’m left standing by the piano, my heart still racing. I’m breathing again. The room comes back into focus. I look across the space, my eyes searching for him.

Mason is back at the bar, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He seems to be looking at nothing in particular. But then, as if feeling my stare, he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine across the crowded room.

There is no warmth in his gaze. No sympathy. But there is… something else. A flicker of acknowledgment. A silent, unnerving communication. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He simply raises his glass a single, almost imperceptible inch.

A toast. Or a warning.

He knows. The certainty of it hits me with the force of a physical blow. He knows I’m a fraud. He had me cornered, dead to rights, and he chose to save me. He didn’t save Anastasia Sterling, the lost heiress. He saved me, the imposter, from Caleb, his own executive.

The question is not ‘if’ he knows anymore.

The question is why he just took my side.