Stolen Heiress
"And Celine?"
I turned. Catherine stood in the doorway, still dressed for the charity board meeting she had left three hours ago. Pearls at her throat. Hair immaculate. Her hands, I noticed, were shaking. She had hidden it well for twenty-two years. Tonight, the mask cracked.
"Celine is collateral," I said. "She always was."
"She is our daughter."
"She is a Voss." I crossed the room, close enough to smell her perfume something French, expensive, chosen to project warmth. "Stolen, renamed, raised to perform loyalty. But not Laurent. Not blood. Not mine."
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