Xavian didn’t sit. Didn’t take off his coat. Just stood in her Prague hotel room like he was surveying territory that didn’t belong to her.“You think you made a choice,” he said. “At every crucial moment leaving Vane, helping Liora, running to Prague you think those were your decisions.”“They were.”“No.” He pulled out a tablet. “They were checkpoints on a trajectory designed fifteen years ago.”Nyx’s left eyelid twitched.He showed her a file. Photographs. Of her. At ages she didn’t remember being photographed. Standing in places she’d never been. With people she’d never met.“You were seven years old when Liora first identified you,” Xavian said quietly. “She was looking for a specific type of girl. Orphan. Intelligent. Morally flexible. Unattached to any family structure that might create competing loyalties.”The photographs showed a child. Brown eyes. Small. Fragile. Nothing like the woman she thought she was.“Your mother, the woman in Dubai, she wasn’t your biological mother.
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