As I sat back on the couch with my legs sprawled in front of me, arms folded and deep in thought as my mother’s last words echoed in my head like a stubborn pop song on repeat.
Alexander Grayson, who is Sophia?
I rubbed a hand over my jaw, the faint stubble grazing my fingers as I did. I wasn’t ready for this. Not for the questions. Not for the assumptions. And definitely not for the drama that would unravel once Mom caught a whiff of the real story about Sophia … one I hadn’t even fully come to terms with.
I glanced over at her. She was now busy fussing over Jane’s hair, muttering about split ends and bad conditioner choices and how stubborn Jane was. The scene was deceptively wholesome, deceptively safe. But I knew better. Jane and Mom weren’t just family, they were a pair of CIA ag
