The morning sun slanted through the tall windows of the mansion’s library, warm and golden, but Sierra felt no comfort. She perched on the velvet sofa with a book open on her lap, her eyes fixed on the same page she had been staring at for nearly an hour. Words swam before her, meaningless.
All she could think about was the scarf. Vanessa’s voice silken, amused, and deadly still echoed in her head. Why was it in Damien’s study?
Every sound in the house made her flinch. The staff footsteps, the soft closing of doors, the clink of silverware from the kitchen—all of it felt like whispers of a verdict forming against her.
She wanted to run. But there was nowhere to go.
By midday, the trap snapped.
“Sierra?” Mrs. Alden appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. “Your mother
