"The seating chart places you beside your brother, Ms. Cross, with a direct sightline to the bride's entrance."
I stare at the diagram spread across my desk while Rachel hovers at my elbow with a tablet clutched against her chest.
"Grandmother's doing," I say flatly.
"Mrs. Armitage specified that you'll be expected to deliver a toast following the formal introduction."
Rachel is scrolling through her notes.
"She requested remarks of approximately three minutes, emphasizing family unity and the strength of the alliance."
"Of course she has." I push the seating chart aside. "What else did she specify?"
"The photographers will capture the toast from the east side of the room, so she's requested you angle slightly toward your brother during the remarks."
"Angle toward Leander," I repeat. "So the cameras catch both of us performing our devotion to this marriage."
"I believe that was the intention, yes." Rachel hesitates. "Is there anything you'd like me to adjust in the arrangements?"
"No. The arrangements are exactly what Grandmother wants, and what Grandmother wants, Grandmother gets."
I reach for my coffee, already knowing it will be wrong. Lukewarm. Bitter.
"Is this the temperature I requested?"
"I asked the kitchen for hot coffee, Ms. Cross. Should I have it remade?"
"It's fine," I lie, setting the mug down.
She nods and retreats, and my eyes drift to the glass partition.
Seven-oh-three.
Every morning since Elle left, I catch myself looking toward that door at exactly this moment, expecting blonde hair and warmth that made everything bearable.
Instead, I get Rachel. Competent, efficient, forgettable.
I haven't slept properly since Elle left. The nights stretch into hollow hours of staring at ceilings and replaying conversations I should have handled differently.
Stay, I should have said. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together.
My phone buzzes against the desk, and Maren Cole's name illuminates the screen. I answer before the second ring.
"Tell me you found something," I say without preamble.
"I found something," Maren replies. "Though it's frustratingly incomplete, Ms. Cross."
"Give me what you have."
"Elowen Kincaid remains a ghost. No photographs in any database I can access. No social media presence. No public appearances in four years."
"four years is a long time to stay hidden."
"It is," she agrees. "Especially for someone from a family that prominent. Whatever happened four years ago, they've buried it deep."
"What about the marriage arrangement? You mentioned a will."
"Her grandfather's will. He died recently—last week, in fact. The terms require Elowen to marry before inheriting her portion of the family trust, but the specific conditions remain sealed."
"Last week," I repeat, and dread crawls along the base of my spine. "When exactly last week?"
"The obituary lists Sunday evening. Private funeral service in Vermont, family only."
Vermont.
The word echoes through my skull, pulling at threads I've been trying to ignore.
My hand tightens around the phone as the connection forms—slow at first, then rushing forward like water breaking through a dam.
Elle took bereavement leave last week. Her grandfather died. The funeral was in Vermont.
It has to be a coincidence.
"Ms. Cross? Are you still there?"
"What else do you have on the grandfather?"
My voice sounds strange to my own ears—too controlled, too careful.
"Patriarch of the family. Reclusive. Controlled the purse strings for decades."
Papers shuffle on Maren's end.
"His death triggered the marriage clause, which is apparently why everything's moving so quickly with your brother's engagement."
"And Elowen herself? Any information before she disappeared from public life?"
"Educated abroad. Switzerland, then France. Returned to the States at twenty-three, then vanished completely. No photographs exist from after her return."
Twenty-three. The same age Elle was when she appeared in my office with flawless credentials and an untraceable past.
"Is there anything else you need from me?" Maren asks.
"No. That's enough."
"Should I keep digging?"
"Stop looking," I say quietly. "I'll find out what I need tomorrow."
The call ends, and I sit motionless, staring at the empty desk through the glass.
The timeline crystallizes in my mind, each piece clicking into place with terrible precision.
Elle Wyeth materialized four years ago. Elowen Kincaid vanished four years ago.
Elle's grandfather died last week in Vermont. Elowen's grandfather died last week in Vermont.
Elle resigned without explanation, citing family obligations she couldn't discuss. Elowen is being forced into marriage by a will that was just activated.
Coincidence, I tell myself, but the word tastes like ash.
Rachel appears in my doorway.
"Ms. Cross, the Henderson documents are ready for your signature, and Mr. Patel from Finance wanted to confirm the quarterly budget allocations."
"Not now, Rachel."
"Of course. Should I reschedule Mr. Patel for tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow I have the engagement dinner."
"Right, of course." She hesitates. "Is there anything else you need before I leave for the evening?"
"No. Go home."
She nods and retreats, and the office settles into silence.
I remain at my desk long after the sun sets, turning the pieces over in my mind, searching for any explanation that doesn't lead where I think it leads.
By evening, I stand before the mirror in my bedroom, examining the woman reflected back at me.
Flawless black dress—armor for whatever waits tomorrow. Hair swept back to reveal the sharp angles of my face.
I practice my smile until it looks genuine.
"The alliance between our families represents more than a union of names."
I rehearse, watching my reflection form the words.
"It represents a commitment to legacy, to strength, to the values that have sustained both our houses for generations."
The smile holds. The eyes remain cold.
"May Leander and his bride find happiness in their partnership," I continue, testing each phrase, "and may our families flourish in this new chapter together."
Good enough. Grandmother will approve.
I turn away from the mirror, and my phone lights up on the nightstand. Leander's name appears above a message that stops my breath.
Leander: Grandmother says we'll "recognize the bride immediately." What does that mean?
Recognize. Immediately.
The words burrow beneath my skin like splinters. Grandmother doesn't speak in riddles unless the riddle serves her purposes.
She chose those words deliberately, knowing they would reach me, knowing I would turn them over in my mind until sleep became impossible.
What does she want?
My fingers hover over the screen.
Leander deserves an answer, deserves reassurance, deserves a sister who can tell him everything will be fine. But my throat has closed around unformed terror.
All I can manage is hollow deflection.
I don't know. We'll find out tomorrow.
I set the phone down and press my palm flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat thud against my ribs like something trapped and desperate.
The suspicions I've been assembling all day crowd closer now.
Grandmother arranged this engagement. Grandmother chose the bride. Grandmother placed me beside Leander at dinner, positioned me to deliver a toast, and orchestrated every detail of tomorrow's performance.
And now Grandmother says we'll recognize her immediately.
The dread coils tighter, settling into my bones like a sickness I cannot shake. Whatever waits for me tomorrow, Grandmother has already seen it coming.
The question is whether she's warning me—or whether this is exactly what she planned all along.