Sienna's POV
I sit at my kitchen table with the photograph of my mother and Dominic Sterling propped against a mug of cold coffee, the ceramic long since abandoned any pretense of warmth. Beside it, on my laptop screen, glows the coatroom photo of Chase and Vivian, the one I've screenshotted and saved and stared at until the pixels blur. Something cold and certain settles into my chest as I look between the two images, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm staring at the same story told twice, decades apart, like the Upper East Side just keeps recasting the same tragic leads.
For months I've told myself the dread I felt at graduation was a one-time thing, some strange, unexplainable episode triggered by stress and secondhand humiliation. I don't believe that anymore. The memory of that
