LOGINThe striking, facial structure. Sydney is an absolute, undeniable replica of the woman in the vintage photograph—Tobias’s mother. The almost psychotic protectiveness Tobias has shown toward Sydney from the very first moment he met her. The massive financial safety nets he threw under her, the fact
Before I can even open my mouth to apologize for breaking into his house, Tobias speaks. His voice is incredibly quiet, completely devoid of its usual sharp authority, yet it carries a heavy, haunting weight that pins me right to the carpet. "For years..." he murmurs, his finger continuing its slow
I stand frozen on the gravel path, the engine of Sydney’s departing car roaring in my ears. I watch the taillights of her vehicle bounce over the cemetery threshold, disappearing completely from sight, and with every inch of distance she puts between us, my heart shatters into a million jagged, irre
My throat locks up. I’ve seen Owen angry, I’ve seen him arrogant, and I’ve seen him lethal in a courtroom. But I have never seen him cry like this. "I am so sorry for leaving you in that jail cell, Sydney," he whispers again, his voice cracking completely now as he stares down at my lips. "I know n
The second Owen’s fingers touch the chrome handle of his sleek black sedan, I violently twist out of his reach. I yank myself away from his side, clutching the lapels of his oversized designer suit jacket against my chest like a shield. He freezes, his hand dropping from the door as he whips his he
My stomach completely drops. The press. The paparazzi who were banned from the main service have already spotted the commotion from the outer gates. Long, heavy camera lenses are already poking through the iron bars, the rapid, machine-gun clicking of shutters filling the air as they capture every
I sit in the back of the car, the scent of raw egg and sulfur filling the cramped space until I feel like I might actually gag. I need to get clean, and I need to be somewhere that feels like mine—or at least, somewhere that doesn't smell like a holding cell. "Take me to the studio," I tell the dri
The sun is warm on my skin, and for a fleeting second, I am actually, genuinely happy. I’m standing in the middle of a flowery field—the kind you see in perfume commercials where everything is soft focus and smells like jasmine. The wind is blowing against my face, and I feel peaceful. Free. Like
"So you saw her that day?" The detective’s voice is a low, gravelly drone that usually makes me want to yawn, but today? Today, it’s music to my ears. I’m sitting in the Newton’s private study, the air smelling of aged mahogany and the faint, lingering scent of Grandmother’s favorite lavender sache
The air in the morgue is heavy with the scent of formaldehyde and the crushing weight of finality. I stand over my mother’s body, staring at the pale, waxen stillness of her face. This isn't how it was supposed to end. She was the matriarch, the one who survived the scandals and the secrets, and now







