Isla Calloway had spent her life believing she knew who she was.
A Calloway. A daughter of power. An heir to an empire built on ruthless ambition.
But now?
Now, she wasn’t even sure if she existed at all.
Because if Edward was telling the truth—if she wasn’t really a Calloway—then who the hell was she?
Her blood ran cold as his words echoed in her mind.
"You’re not really a Calloway, Isla."
"Your real father was the Kingmaker."
Lucas’s grip on her arm tightened, his green eyes burning with fury.
"He’s lying," he said, voice low, dangerous. "He’s trying to break you."
But Edward?
Edward just smiled.
"Am I?" he murmured, tilting his head. "Or have I just given her the truth she was never meant to know?"
Isla’s chest ached from more than just the bullet wound.
Because somewhere
