The grand reception hall hummed with the warm, festive energy of a wedding celebration.
The boy tilted his head, his dark eyes solemn and unwavering beneath the glare of the crystal chandeliers. "Her name is Maura. She said you would know who she is if you saw the fountain."
The name hit Laura like an icy blow to the sternum. Her knuckles turned stark white as her manicured nails dug into the vintage print. Her groom, Julian Sterling, placed a firm, stabilizing hand on the small of her back, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd of two hundred high-society guests before locking onto his bride’s ashen face.
"Laura, what is this?" Julian asked, his voice low and tight. "Who is outside?"
"She was supposed to be dead, Julian," Laura choked out, her voice barely carrying over the quartet playing Chopin in the gallery. "Maura died eight years ago in the coastal fire at Blackwood Point. We buried her."
The boy did not wait for further questions. He turned on his polished patent-leather shoes and slipped effortlessly through the heavy velvet portières framing the grand mahogany doors of the estate.
Laura gathered the heavy skirts of her white satin gown, completely ignoring the calls of her mother-in-law and the raised champagne glasses of visiting senators. She pushed through the double doors into the cool, rain-dampened air of the portico.
Standing at the edge of the stone terrace, illuminated by the amber glow of the carriage lamps, was a woman in a dark wool trench coat. Her blonde hair was cut sharp to her jaw, her face older, thinner, and marked by a faint, silvery surgical scar tracing from her left temple down to her collarbone.
Beside her sat a worn leather satchel strapped to a rolling luggage carrier.
The woman slowly turned around. When her hazel eyes met Laura’s, a faint, heartbreaking smile touched her lips.
"Hello, little sister," Maura said, her voice rough, textured by the smoke of a fire that had consumed an entire dynasty. "You look beautiful in white. Just like Mom always dreamed you would."
Laura’s knees gave out. Julian caught her by the waist before she hit the wet limestone steps.
"Maura... how?" Laura wept, her trembling hand reaching out into the night air as if reaching for an apparition. "Julian’s father identified your watch at the morgue. Jack’s car went over the bluffs. We held a double memorial."
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Maura took one deliberate step onto the lit terrace, pulling a thick, legal-sized manila envelope from beneath her trench coat.
"Julian’s father didn't identify my watch, Laura," Maura said, her gaze shifting to Julian with absolute, chilling clarity. "Richard Sterling placed my watch on a stranger’s charred body. And the man you just swore your sacred vows to is standing on an empire built over my husband’s grave."
