Luna stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at her. Miguel had worked his usual magic—her dark hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, her makeup was flawless, and the blue dress Mrs. Patel had chosen fit like it had been made for her. She looked every inch the wealthy socialite, the perfect wife for a man like Grayson Vaughn.
But inside, she felt like she was fracturing.
Luna Winters. The name echoed in her mind like a half-remembered song. She'd tried all afternoon to recall more details, to grasp the memories that seemed to float just beyond her reach. A woman's laugh. The scent of jasmine perfume. Equations written on a whiteboard in graceful handwriting.
Mom?
"You look beautiful."
Luna's eyes snapped to the mirror's reflection,
