Chapter Three: The Message

Cold water hits my face like a slap.

I jolt awake, gasping, choking on water that floods my nose and mouth. My eyes fly open to see Mother standing over my bed, an empty crystal glass in her hand and murder in her eyes. "Wake up, you slug," she hisses.

I sit up, coughing, wiping water from my face with shaking hands. My head is pounding, and my mouth tastes like metal and something bitter.

And then the memories hit me.

The study. The man in black. His voice telling me Richard Ashford isn't my father. The silver flash of a needle. The sharp, burning pain in my neck.

Celeste.

My hand flies to my throat. There's no wound. No blood. Just smooth, unmarked skin.

Was it... was it a dream?

"Have you gone completely mad?" Mother's voice cuts through my confusion. She's staring at me like I'm something disgusting she found in the garbage. "You have twenty minutes to get ready."

I blink at her, still disoriented. My room is bright with morning sunlight. How long was I asleep?

"Get ready for what?" My voice comes out raspy. Rough.

Her jaw tightens. "Your father's investor conference, you fool. The annual Ashford Holdings presentation? The one he's been planning for months? Or did you conveniently forget about that too?"

Right. The conference. Father's biggest event of the year where he parades the family around like show ponies to impress shareholders and secure investments.

I had completely forgotten.

"I don't—"

"Twenty minutes, Anastasia." She sets the empty glass on my nightstand with a sharp click. "And don't think for one second that I've forgotten what you did to your sister last night, you witch. The only reason you're not locked in this room is because your father insists on maintaining appearances."

She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "If you embarrass this family today, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?"

I don't answer, and after a few seconds pass, she slams the door behind her. I sit there, soaked and shaking, staring at nothing.

Should I tell them?

About the man in black? About him breaking into Father's study? About what he said?

Richard Ashford is not your father.

No. No, I can't.

They wouldn't believe me. They never believe me. They would probably say I was making it up for attention. That I was trying to cause drama after last night's "incident."

And if it was real, if that man was real and not some stress-induced hallucination, then telling the Ashfords would only put me in more danger.

Besides, how did I even get back to my room? The last thing I remember is the darkness swallowing me in Father's study. Did he carry me here? Did he tuck me into bed like some kind of twisted fairytale?

The thought makes my skin crawl.

I force myself out of bed. My clothes from last night are gone, someone changed me into pajamas. The idea of Mother or one of the staff undressing my unconscious body makes me feel sick.

Twenty minutes.

I shower in record time, scrubbing the lingering grogginess from my skin. The hot water helps clear my head, but I can't stop touching my neck. Checking for a wound that isn't there.

You'll wake up in a few hours. You'll think this was a dream.

His words echo in my mind. But it wasn't a dream. I know it wasn't.

I throw on a simple black dress, appropriate for a corporate event, boring enough that I won't draw attention. Minimal makeup. Hair pulled back in a neat bun.

The perfect invisible daughter.

When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. My eyes are hollow. My cheeks still bear faint red marks from Mother's slaps.

But I look presentable. Professional.

Good enough for the Ashfords.

~

The Ashford Holdings headquarters is downtown, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that Father loves to brag about. The investor conference is held in the grand ballroom on the twentieth floor, hundreds of shareholders, business partners, and journalists all gathered to hear Father's annual presentation.

I stand at the back of the room, trying to be invisible as usual.

Father is on stage, confident and commanding in his custom suit. He's talking about quarterly earnings and expansion plans, his voice booming through the sound system. Graphs and charts flash across the massive screens behind him. The crowd is eating it up.

"The Ashford family has always prioritized legacy," Father says, and the camera pans to where Mother sits in the front row, looking elegant and proud. "Family values. Integrity. Innovation."

I resist the urge to laugh.

The presentation ends to thunderous applause. Father steps down from the stage, immediately swarmed by admirers and journalists.

I stay in my corner, watching. That's when I see them.

Vivienne, glowing in a white maternity dress, and her hand rests on her belly in that way pregnant women do, protective and proud. Beside her, Christopher. His hand on her lower back. Smiling at something she's saying.

They look happy. Perfect.

Like they didn't destroy me less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Is that Christopher Whitmore?"

"With Vivienne Ashford? I heard rumors they were together—"

"She's pregnant! Look at her!"

"What a power couple. The Ashford and Whitmore families finally united."

"Didn't he used to date the other daughter? The weird one?"

"Who cares? He clearly made the right choice."

I dig my nails into my palms, using the pain to keep myself grounded. Cameras flash. Journalists swarm toward Vivienne and Christopher like sharks scenting blood.

"Miss Ashford! Can you confirm you and Mr. Whitmore are expecting?"

"When's the wedding?"

"How does it feel to be joining two of New York's most prominent families?"

Vivienne laughs, that musical sound she perfected years ago. "We're so excited to start our family together. Christopher is going to be an amazing father."

More flashes. More questions.

I feel sick.

Who was that man last night?

Why did he call me Celeste?

What did he mean when he said Richard Ashford isn't my father?

The questions circle in my mind like vultures.

My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out, expecting another passive-aggressive text from Mother about my posture or my expression or something equally ridiculous.

But the message is from an unknown number.

Unknown: Are you thinking about me?

My heart stops. I stare at the screen, fingers frozen. It's him. It has to be him. My hands shake as I type back.

Me: Who are you?

The response comes immediately.

Unknown: Someone who knows the truth about you, Celeste.

Unknown: Meet me. I'll send you an address.

Me: Why would I do that?

Unknown: Because you want answers. Right?

My breath catches.

He's right.

Unknown: Besides, it's not like you'll be missed.

The words shouldn't hurt, but they do, because he's right about that too.

A new message pops up. An address. Some warehouse district on the east side.

I look around the ballroom. Father is still surrounded by admirers. Mother is networking with the wives of board members. Vivienne and Christopher are posing for photos, her hand on her belly, his arm around her shoulders.

No one is looking at me.

No one ever looks at me.

Me: Fine.

I slip out of the ballroom before anyone can notice I'm gone. Not that they would.

~

The address leads me to the warehouse district, just like he said. Abandoned buildings and chain-link fences. Not exactly the kind of place a smart woman goes alone to meet a stranger who drugged her.

But I'm apparently not a smart woman.

I'm a desperate one.

The specific building is an old converted loft. Industrial and expensive, despite the sketchy neighborhood. I stand outside the door, hand raised to knock, heart pounding.

This is insane.

I should turn around. Go home. Forget any of this ever happened.

But I can't.

Because what if he's telling the truth?

What if Richard Ashford really isn't my father?

What if everything I know about my life is a lie?

I knock, and the door opens immediately. Standing there, no mask this time, is the most devastatingly handsome man I've ever seen.

Dark brown hair. Sharp jawline. Those same intense gray eyes from last night, but now I can see his full face, angular and striking and dangerous.

My brain takes a second to catch up, to process what I'm seeing.

And then it hits me.

I know this face.

I've seen it in magazines. On the covers of Forbes and Business Weekly. In the society pages that Mother obsessively reads.

"Vincent Torres?" I gasp, my eyes widening. "You're—you're Vincent Torres?"

Vincent fucking Torres. Billionaire tech mogul. The man who built an empire before he turned thirty. The one businessman Father actually seems intimidated by.

The man every socialite in New York, including Vivienne, has been desperately trying to catch the attention of for years.

A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips.

"Hello, Celeste," he says, and his voice is smooth. "Come in. We have a lot to discuss."