Madam Harrington’s knees nearly gave out. She clawed at the bare skin just above her gown’s neckline, gasping for air as if the room had suddenly lost its oxygen.
But the tears spilling down her flawless cheeks weren’t born of miraculous maternal joy. They were born of sheer, paralyzing terror.
Arthur snatched the cold photograph from Elara’s trembling fingers. The color instantly drained from his face. The photo didn’t just show a crying little girl wearing the priceless Harrington emeralds. In the background, clearly visible in a mirror’s reflection, was Arthur himself—handing a thick envelope of cash to a shadowy thug on a rainy dock.
The entire Harrington empire was a fragile house of cards, and Victoria—the beloved, highly publicized “golden child” sleeping just down the hall—was the biggest lie of all. Victoria was a healthy, bought replacement. A stand-in for the biological heir they had secretly disposed of twenty years ago to avoid the scandal of a “defective,” sickly child.
Suddenly, Elara’s trembling stopped.
The tears in the young maid’s eyes vanished like a flipped switch. Her pathetic, subservient posture dissolved, her spine straightening into a terrifyingly elegant, dominant stance.
“You’re dead,” Madam Harrington choked out, backing into her gilded vanity. “I watched the car sink into the river.”
Elara smiled. It was a cold, predatory smirk. When she spoke again, the meek servant’s voice was gone. Her accent was suddenly crisp, aristocratic, and chillingly identical to the Madam’s.
“You should have checked the backseat, Mother,” Elara whispered. She reached deep into the pocket of her starched white apron, her fingers wrapping around the cold, heavy steel of a suppressed revolver. “I didn’t come back for a family reunion. I came for my inheritance.”