C5

"Smile, Cecelia," Christopher murmurs, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of my back as we step into the blinding chandelier lights of the grand ballroom.

I force my lips into a rigid curve while my stomach twists into a nauseous ball.

The high-profile charity gala is packed with the city’s most elite socialites, all staring at us like vultures waiting for a carcass. Christopher drags me through the crowded room, his grip on my waist possessive and unyielding.

"Everyone, meet my new wife," Christopher announces to a group of wealthy investors, his voice dripping with smooth, cutting politeness. "A reminder that even the lowest can be given a second chance."

Soft, mocking laughter ripples through the circle of guests behind their crystal champagne glasses.

My cheeks burn with a deep, humiliating heat. I clench my jaw, my heart thrashing violently against my ribs as I endure their sneering looks. Christopher doesn't even glance down at me. He stands tall, projecting ultimate power while publicly dragging my dignity through the mud.

Before I can draw another breath, a woman in a shimmering gold gown glides smoothly through the crowd directly toward us.

It's Jessica Lambert, Christopher's aunt and the matriarch of the family estate.

For one brief second, Jessica freezes dead in her tracks when her eyes lock onto my face. Her face turns entirely pale, her lips parting in what looks like pure, unadulterated shock. But in the fraction of a second, she recovers her composure, her eyes hardening into steel.

She steps forward with a wide, fake smile that doesn't reach her cold eyes. She leans in close, wrapping her arms around me, and kisses my cheek right in front of the flashing press cameras.

"You look exactly like your mother," Jessica whispers directly into my ear, her voice dripping with pure, concentrated poison. "Right before she died."

She pulls back instantly and throws her head back in a bright, performative, hollow laugh that rings out over the music.

My blood turns to absolute ice in my veins. My breath stops entirely in my lungs as the horror of her words sinks into my chest. She knew my mother. She was there.

"Are you alright, dear?" Jessica asks loudly for the surrounding crowd, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

Before I can answer, a sharp reporter shoves a heavy black microphone straight into my face, his camera crew leaning in close.

"Mrs. Lambert!" the reporter shouts over the noise. "How does a girl from the gutter adapt to marrying into the most powerful family in the state? Is it true you were working at a low-end club just forty-eight hours ago?"

My throat closes up. Christopher steps slightly closer, preparing to deliver another cutting, dismissive remark to control the narrative.

I lift my chin, staring straight into the camera lens with burning eyes.

"My past is irrelevant," I say, my voice ringing out surprisingly clear, strong, and entirely steady. "I grew up learning how to survive people like you. My mother taught me well before Julian Vance destroyed her life."

The name slips out of my mouth like a drop of acid—a name buried deep in my past that I was never supposed to speak aloud in public.

Christopher’s head snaps toward me with violent speed.

His dark eyes widen in utter shock, the ice in his face shattering for a fraction of a second. I watch a flash of genuine calculation ripple across his sharp jaw, followed immediately by something that looks horrifyingly like raw fear. He stares at me as if I have just pulled a loaded gun on him in broad daylight.

Before the reporters can process the name, Christopher grabs my arm in an iron grip and spins me away from the press.

"We are leaving," he growls through gritted teeth, his face hardening back into a mask of pure, terrifying frost.

Two hours later, the mansion is completely dead and quiet.

I walk silently through the grand library, my bare feet making no sound on the heavy Persian rugs. My mind is spinning out of control, the memory of Jessica's poisoned words and Christopher's sudden fear echoing in my ears.

A dim lamp glows on the massive oak desk in the corner of the room. Resting beside a stack of legal documents is an ancient, leather-bound history book left lying open.

I step closer to the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Pushed deep into the hollowed-out center of the open pages is a small, tarnished silver locket. It is the first real clue I have ever found in this house.

My hands tremble violently as I reach out and pick up the metal casing. I press the tiny side latch with my thumbnail, and the locket pops open with a soft click.

Inside the left frame rests a tiny, faded photograph of my mother, Celestine, smiling brightly as a young woman. Tucked into the right compartment, held down by a small piece of velvet, is a tiny silver key with a crest carved into its head.

A quiet footstep sounds at the entrance of the library.

I jump, snapping my head up toward the wide double doorway.

Christopher appears in the frame without warning, his tall silhouette blocking out the hallway light. His dark eyes drop straight to my hands, locking onto the silver locket resting in my open palm.

For one single heartbeat, the cold, ruthless wall on his face shatters completely. His eyes soften with a raw, agonizing pain—a look so deeply human and broken that it takes my breath away.

Then, faster than a shadow, the impenetrable ice returns to his features, harder and colder than before.

He steps slowly into the room, his long strides closing the distance between us.

"Put it down," Christopher says quietly, his voice dangerously low.

I tighten my grip around the silver key, holding it against my chest as my knees shake under my robe. "This belonged to my mother. Why do you have it?"

"I said put it down, Cecelia," he repeats, taking another step closer until his shadow completely covers me.

Outside the grand estate, parked in the shadows of the long driveway, Jessica sits in the back of a black luxury car.

She presses her smartphone tightly against her ear, her face pale in the dim light of the dashboard. Her voice is sharp, fast, and breathless with urgent terror as the line connects.

"She knows," Jessica whispers frantically into the receiver. "She's alive, and she just spoke Julian's name in front of the press. Tell the lawyer we need the original will. Now."