The morning broke with the shrill cry of my phone, yanking me from sleep’s fragile embrace. Jack’s fury roared through the receiver, a tempest threatening to shatter my eardrums. “You’re still in bed? Are you *trying* to humiliate me? Get over here and try on the damn dress!”
I shook my head, bleary, as the call cut to a staccato *beep-beep-beep*. The phone’s screen glowed: 10:30. Today was the wedding dress fitting, booked for 11:00.
Until I could expose Jack and Seraphina’s deceit and free Owen from Henry’s grasp, I had to play my part, keep the rhythm of this charade. But last night, poring over Nate’s papers, had stolen my hours. My eyes still burned, heavy with fatigue.
Those documents, though, had cracked open a chilling truth: my parents’ death might be tied to Henry.
The files
