The knock at the door startled me. It was mid-morning, the penthouse unusually quiet except for the faint sound of traffic far below. A maid entered carrying a long, rectangular box tied neatly with silver ribbon.
“Delivery, Mrs. Reynolds,” she murmured, setting it gently on the console by the window before bowing out.
I frowned. I hadn’t ordered anything. My name—Mrs. Reynolds—still didn’t fit when people spoke it aloud. I tugged the ribbon loose, the silk sliding through my fingers, and opened the lid.
Inside lay a set of crystal champagne flutes, delicate and shimmering in the sunlight. A card was tucked between them.
“To Amelia. Congratulations on your marriage. May it be filled with joy.”
My breath caught.
Amelia.
Of course.
The box tilted as I set it down, glass clinking agai
