Sophie.
The crowd swarmed her, a suffocating wave of perfume, cologne, and insincere smiles. Arthur Sterling was wheeled away by a nurse, leaving Sophie to the wolves.
“Ella, my dear girl!” A portly man with a red face and tiny eyes grabbed her hand. Cousin Robert. Head of a failing hedge fund, according to her files.
“Robert,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s so good to see you. You look… prosperous.”
His chest puffed out. “We do our best. Sterling blood, you know. I’m so sorry about what you must have gone through.”
“The past is the past,” she said, her eyes conveying a deep, unspecific trauma he could fill in with his own imagination. “I’m focused on the future now. On family.”
He squeezed her hand. “That’s what I like to hear. We must talk about my new South American venture. A real game changer.”
“I’d love that,” Sophie lied, gently extracting her hand. She turned to a woman dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
“Aunt Margaret,” Sophie said softly.
“Oh, Ella,” the woman wailed, pulling her into a cloud of lavender scent. “We prayed every night for your return.”
“I felt those prayers,” Sophie said, a perfect note of fragile gratitude in her voice. She had read that Margaret was deeply religious and prone to histrionics. “I remembered the lullabies you used to sing to me. They gave me strength.”
Margaret’s eyes widened, tears flowing anew. “You remember that?”
“Some things,” Sophie whispered, “you never forget.”
It was a dance she knew well. A delicate performance of giving people what they wanted to hear, of reflecting their own emotions back at them. For an hour, she moved through the vipers, deflecting questions about her absence with vague statements about needing time to heal, all while scanning the room for Chase Sandon. He had melted back into the shadows, but she felt his presence like a cold spot in the warm, crowded room.
Her real mission was not this performance. It was upstairs.
Seeing her chance, she touched Margaret’s arm. “Aunt, would you forgive me? It’s all a bit overwhelming. I just need a moment to myself.”
“Of course, my dear, of course! Take all the time you need.”
Sophie slipped through a side exit, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor of a blessedly empty hallway. She followed the museum map she had memorized weeks ago, heading toward the private wing where the Sterling Foundation kept its offices.
Arthur’s study was her target. A small, powerful bug, no bigger than a sequin, was tucked into the clasp of her evening bag. If she could plant it on his desk or behind a book, she could listen to every conversation that decided the fate of the company.
She found the door. Dark oak, with a simple brass plaque that read: A. Sterling.
Her heart hammered in her chest. This was it. The first real step toward justice for her father. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob.
“Looking for something?”
The voice was low and smooth, cutting through the silence like black ice. It came from directly behind her.
Sophie froze. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Chase Sandon.
She slowly turned, schooling her features into a look of mild confusion. He stood there, impossibly still, his tuxedo perfectly tailored to his lean frame. He wasn’t just in the shadows; he was made of them.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, feigning innocence. “Did you say something?”
“I asked if you were lost,” he said, his eyes unblinking. They were a strange, dark grey, the color of a stormy sea.
“No,” she said. “Just… overwhelmed. I was looking for a quiet place to sit for a moment.”
“This is your grandfather’s study,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I know. I thought…”
“He never lets anyone in here. Not without him. You remember that, don’t you?”
Every word was a test. A pinprick designed to see if she would bleed.
“It’s been ten years,” she said, her voice soft and apologetic. “Some of the household rules are a little hazy.”
“Are they?” He took a step closer. He didn’t invade her personal space, but the intensity of his presence made the hallway feel smaller, tighter. “Funny what a decade can make hazy. And what it can bring into sharp focus.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, holding his gaze. Showing fear would be fatal.
“You remember Cousin Robert’s financial troubles and Aunt Margaret’s favorite lullaby. But you forget that this room is off-limits.” His lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. It was a weapon. “Selective memory.”
“Trauma does that,” she replied, falling back on her prepared script. “Doctors told me it’s not unusual to have gaps, or for certain memories to be more vivid than others.”
“Ah, yes. The trauma,” he said, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Tell me, does your trauma allow you to remember a cat named Cinder?”
Sophie’s blood ran cold. Cinder. Not in her files. Her research had been exhaustive, covering Ella’s friends, teachers, favorite foods, allergies, the name of her first pony. There was no mention of a cat named Cinder. It was a trap. A deliberate, fatal trap.
She held her breath, her mind racing. He was expecting her to fail. He wanted her to fail. What would the real Ella do? She would be confused. She would question him.
“Cinder?” she asked, tilting her head. “No, I don’t think so. We had a golden retriever, Barnaby. And my pony, Starlight. I don’t recall a cat.”
Chase’s eyes narrowed slightly. He stared at her for a long, silent moment, and Sophie felt like an insect under a microscope.
“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice flat. “There was no cat named Cinder. I just made that up.”
Relief washed over her so intensely her knees felt weak, but she didn’t let it show.
“Why would you do that?” she asked, injecting a note of hurt into her tone.
“Just checking the gaps,” he said smoothly. He took another step, closing the remaining distance between them. He smelled faintly of scotch and cold ambition. “Now tell me about the locket.”
“The locket?”
“The one grandmother gave you. Silver, heart-shaped, with a sapphire chip in the corner. You never took it off.”
This, she knew. It was one of the first things she’d learned. And the first thing she’d had forged. But she wasn't wearing it. That was part of the story.
“It was stolen,” she said simply. “The night I… the night I disappeared. It was all I had left of her.”
His gaze was so intense it felt like he was peeling back her skin to look at her soul. “A shame,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “It would be difficult to replace.”
He was toying with her. A predator playing with its food. He didn’t believe her for a second. She had passed his tests, but she had failed his inspection.
“Is there a reason you’re interrogating me, Chase?” she asked, deciding to push back, just a little. “I’m still Ella. Or have you forgotten?”
His smirk was back, sharp and unsettling. “No one could forget you.”
He reached out, and for a terrifying second, she thought he was going to touch her. Instead, he rested his hand on the wall just beside her head, effectively caging her in.
“The gala is ending,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Arthur has insisted you come back to the estate. For your safety.”
“I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said, her voice steady despite the frantic beating of her heart.
“Oh, I’m sure you will be,” Chase said, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’ll be watching you myself.”
He pushed off the wall and straightened his jacket cuffs. It was a simple, dismissive gesture, but it felt like a declaration of war.
“Welcome home, Ella.”
