Aria
The ballroom at the Sterling estate is a galaxy of crystal and lies. Chandeliers drip light onto a sea of tailored suits and silk dresses. The air is thick with expensive perfume and the quiet hum of gossip. Every smile is a negotiation. Every handshake is an appraisal. I am the evening’s main exhibit.
“To Anastasia,” a man with a booming voice and a ruddy face toasts, raising his champagne flute. “Welcome home.”
The chorus of ‘welcome home’ echoes around me. I feel like a ghost haunting my own party. I offer the same fragile smile I perfected in the boardroom. It seems to be working. Pity is a far more effective shield than armor.
I’ve been circulating for an hour, a masterpiece of remembered details and fabricated emotions. Marcus’s voice has been a steady whisper in my ear, feeding me names, connections, and reminders. ‘Arthur Kensington to your left, hates his son in law. Eleanor Sterling is by the fireplace. Approach with caution.’
Then, I see him. Caleb cuts through the crowd like a shark, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He has two older women in tow, family members whose names I instantly recall from my files. Great Aunts. Matriarchs of minor branches, but their opinions hold weight.
“Anastasia, darling,” Caleb says, his voice a silken trap. “Aunt Carol and Aunt Beatrice were just reminiscing about the summers at the lake house. You must remember those.”
He’s starting. The public interrogation.
“Flashes,” I say, touching my temple lightly. “I remember the water. The smell of the pine trees after it rained.”
“She remembers the smell of the pines,” Caleb says to the aunts, a note of mocking wonder in his voice. “But do you remember the name of your pony? The little Shetland you adored so much. You called him…” He lets the sentence hang, waiting for me to fall into his trap.
My heart beats a steady rhythm. This was in the files. A deep dive into old family photo albums. The pony’s name was Patches. But a girl with amnesia wouldn’t just know that.
I look at him, my eyes wide and searching. “Was it… something silly? I have this feeling it was a child’s name for something. Like… Buttons? Or Socks?”
One of the aunts, Beatrice, claps her hands together softly. “Oh, she was so close! It was Patches, dear. Because of the spots on his back. You were inseparable from that animal.”
I let a slow, sad smile touch my lips. “Patches. Of course. It feels… familiar. Thank you for reminding me.”
Caleb’s smile tightens. Round one to me. He expected me to know it perfectly or not at all. The near miss was the perfect move. It builds the character. A mind trying to heal, not a con artist with a script.
“Your memory is a fascinating thing, isn’t it?” he pushes, unwilling to let it go. “So selective.”
Before I can respond, a new voice cuts through, calm and laced with authority. “All memory is selective, Caleb. I find I conveniently forget most of the things you say by lunchtime.”
Eleanor Sterling stands before us. The true queen of this court. She is tall and elegant, her silver hair coiled perfectly, her eyes the color of a winter sky. They miss nothing. She turns those eyes on me.
“Anastasia,” she says. Her voice is not warm, but it is not unkind. It is… assessing. “You look like your mother.”
“So I’ve been told,” I say softly. “Though I don’t remember her face.”
This is the truth. My own mother, not Anastasia’s. The grief I channel is real, a raw resource I can tap at will. It gives my performance the weight of authenticity.
“She was a good woman. Too gentle for this family,” Eleanor says, her gaze flickering to Caleb for a fraction of a second. It’s all the confirmation I need. She knows exactly what her grandson is.
She places a cool, dry hand on my arm. “Walk with me, child.”
It’s not a request. I cast a brief, victorious glance at Caleb, whose face has soured, and let the matriarch lead me toward the French doors that open onto a stone terrace.
The cool night air is a relief. Below us, the gardens are a maze of sculpted hedges and glowing lanterns.
“He will not stop,” Eleanor says, looking out at the city lights. “Caleb sees your return as a threat to his inheritance. To his ambition.”
“I don’t want to be a threat to anyone,” I lie. “I just want to understand who I am.”
“Do you?” she asks, turning to face me. Her eyes are sharp, analytical. This is a different kind of test. Not of facts, but of substance. “Your grandfather was a difficult man. He built an empire, but he broke people to do it. His own son included. He valued loyalty above all else. Tell me, Anastasia, what do you value?”
The question hangs in the air between us. Marcus didn’t prepare me for this. This isn’t in a file or a photograph. This is about soul. I give her the only real answer I have.
“A second chance,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “To have a family. To have a name that means something. To feel… safe.”
The last word comes out with a slight tremor. It’s not an act. For the first time tonight, the mask slips, and the scared girl who lost everything is the one speaking.
Eleanor studies my face for a long moment. I feel stripped bare, certain I have failed. Then, a hint of softness enters her eyes. She reaches up and touches the locket at my throat.
“This was your grandmother’s,” she says. “She would be glad to see it home.” She pats my hand. “You have more of her in you than I thought. She was a survivor too.”
She has given me her blessing. It’s a victory more significant than any financial report, a shield stronger than any lie. As we turn to go back inside, I see him. Mason Trent. He stands near the bar, holding a glass of what looks like whiskey, watching us. His face is unreadable, a mask of cold neutrality. But his eyes follow every move I make. He is not a guest at this party. He is a sentinel on the wall.
My brief moment of triumph evaporates, replaced by that familiar, chilling unease. He is the one person here who doesn’t seem to be buying a single word I’m selling.
Caleb corners me again near the grand piano, his frustration making him reckless. He is no longer trying to be subtle.
“This is absurd,” he hisses, keeping his voice low so only I can hear. “The lost princess returns, and everyone just falls at her feet. You can fool the old sentimentalists, but not me.”
“I’m not trying to fool anyone, Caleb.”
“Aren’t you?” He takes a step closer, his cologne cloying and aggressive. “Alright, let’s try another memory. A more recent one. Just before you… disappeared. Grandfather wrote you a letter. He told me he enclosed a specific stock tip, a private test of your business sense. What was the company, Anastasia?”
Ice floods my veins. Nothing. My mind is a blank wall. There was no mention of a letter in any of the diaries, any of the emails Marcus managed to recover. Nothing. It’s a perfect trap because it’s information that could only exist between two people, one of whom is dead.
My mouth goes dry. For the first time, the script is gone. The safety net has vanished. I have nothing.
Caleb’s eyes glitter with triumph. He sees my panic. He leans in for the kill.
“Cat got your tongue, cousin? Or should I say, the cat never had it to begin with.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. The sounds of the party fade into a dull roar. This is it. This is where it all comes crashing down.
“Caleb.”
The voice is low and sharp. It cuts through my panic like a razor. Mason Trent has moved from the bar. He is standing a few feet away, next to a portly man with a flushed face, one of the company’s biggest institutional investors.
“Mr. Davison was just telling me about the issues with the port authority in Singapore,” Mason says, his gaze fixed on Caleb. His tone is conversational, but it holds the weight of a command. “It’s jeopardizing the Q4 shipping forecast. As head of logistics, I imagine you have a contingency plan you can share with us.”
It’s a masterstroke. A direct, public challenge to Caleb’s competence in front of a major investor. It is an interruption so perfectly targeted that Caleb cannot possibly ignore it. To do so would be to admit incompetence.
Caleb’s head whips toward Mason, his face a mask of fury. He is trapped. He has to disengage from me. He glares at Mason, then at me, a silent promise of retribution in his eyes.
“Of course,” Caleb says through gritted teeth. “Davison. Let’s find a quieter place to discuss the… forecast.”
He turns and walks away with the investor, throwing one last venomous look over his shoulder.
I’m left standing by the piano, my heart still racing. I’m breathing again. The room comes back into focus. I look across the space, my eyes searching for him.
Mason is back at the bar, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He seems to be looking at nothing in particular. But then, as if feeling my stare, he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine across the crowded room.
There is no warmth in his gaze. No sympathy. But there is… something else. A flicker of acknowledgment. A silent, unnerving communication. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He simply raises his glass a single, almost imperceptible inch.
A toast. Or a warning.
He knows. The certainty of it hits me with the force of a physical blow. He knows I’m a fraud. He had me cornered, dead to rights, and he chose to save me. He didn’t save Anastasia Sterling, the lost heiress. He saved me, the imposter, from Caleb, his own executive.
The question is not ‘if’ he knows anymore.
The question is why he just took my side.
