Sophie.
“Are you sure about this scar?” Dmitri asked, his eyes meeting hers in the vanity mirror. “It’s a permanent choice, once you walk out that door.”
“It’s not permanent. It’s a prosthetic, you know that.” She pressed the thin, silvery line of latex just below her hairline. A perfect imitation of the mark left by a childhood fall from a horse. A fall the real Ella Sterling never had.
“That’s not what I mean,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He adjusted his driver’s cap. “I mean the choice to be her. To them, that scar is real. That story is real. You will be real.”
Sophie met his worried gaze. “That’s the point, Dmitri. For the next three months, Sophie Larkin is dead. Ella Sterling is back.”
She picked up a diamond earring from the velvet box. “Besides, it was my father’s patent they stole. They left him with nothing. It’s only fair I return the favor.”
He sighed, a sound of resignation she knew well. “Just be careful. These are not good people.”
“Good people don’t have this much money.” She clicked the earring into place and offered a cool smile. “How do I look?”
“Like a billion dollars,” he said, his voice flat.
“Perfect. Let’s go collect.”
The limousine door opened into a blinding wall of camera flashes. Shouts erupted from the press line held back by velvet ropes.
“Is that her?”
“It looks like Ella Sterling!”
“Miss Sterling, where have you been?”
Sophie held up a hand to shield her eyes, a gesture of practiced vulnerability. She ignored the questions, her focus entirely on the grand entrance to the Sterling Foundation Gala. Two security guards in black tuxedos stepped forward, blocking her path.
“Ma’am, this is a private event,” the first one said, his voice polite but firm.
“I’m aware,” Sophie said, her tone dripping with the kind of bored authority that security guards were trained to recognize. “My grandfather is expecting me.”
“Your grandfather?” the second guard asked, skeptical.
Sophie let her gaze sweep over him, a look of mild disappointment. “Arthur Sterling. I’m Ella. I realize it’s been a while.”
They exchanged a look of pure confusion. Their earpieces crackled. They had no protocol for a ghost showing up at the front door.
“Please step aside,” she said, not as a request, but as a command. They did.
The great hall of the museum was a sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Conversations ceased. Champagne glasses froze halfway to lips. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as she walked forward, each step a carefully measured beat in the silent room.
They were staring at her, at the familiar Sterling blue eyes she’d mimicked with contacts, the sharp jawline she’d honed with diet, and the pale scar peeking from her hairline.
She saw him then, across the room. Her target. Arthur Sterling, a shrunken figure in a wheelchair, an oxygen tube clipped to his nose. He looked smaller and more frail than in the photos.
His withered hand trembled as he pointed at her. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Sophie softened her expression, letting a decade of carefully rehearsed pain surface in her eyes. She moved towards him, a daughter returning from a long and terrible war.
“Grandfather?” she whispered, her voice cracking just so.
He stared, his eyes filling with tears that tracked down the papery skin of his cheeks. “Ella?” His voice was a dry rasp. “My girl… is it really you?”
“I’m home,” she said, kneeling beside his chair and taking his cold hand in hers. “I’m so sorry I was away for so long.”
He squeezed her hand with surprising strength, a sob shaking his fragile frame. “I knew it. I knew you were alive. I never gave up hope.”
Around them, the room erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. Cousins and board members started to approach, their faces a mixture of shock, awe, and in some cases, deep suspicion.
Sophie felt a surge of pure triumph. It was working. The research, the training, the sheer audacity of it all. It was working. She had breached the fortress.
She smiled at her weeping grandfather, a gentle, reassuring smile that hid the cold predator in her heart. She scanned the crowd of gaping faces, cataloging her future victims.
Then she saw him.
He was standing near a marble column, half-cloaked in shadow. He wasn’t weeping. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even shocked. His face was a mask of cold neutrality, his dark eyes fixed on her.
He was analyzing her. Picking her apart. His stillness was more terrifying than any outburst. It was the stillness of a wolf watching a lamb play in a field, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
An older woman with a severe haircut and a diamond choker approached her side. “Ella, darling. We thought you were… gone.”
Sophie tore her eyes away from the man in the shadows to focus on the woman. Aunt Beatrice. A viper in Chanel. “The rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”
Beatrice gave a tight, unfriendly smile. “The entire family is here. Everyone is so happy to see you. Even Chase seems… intrigued.”
Sophie kept her expression placid, though her pulse hammered against her ribs. “Chase?”
“Chase Sandon,” Beatrice said, gesturing with her chin toward the man in the shadows. “Grandfather’s right hand. His little pet project. He runs the company now. Surely you remember him? He used to follow you and your brother around like a stray dog.”
“Of course,” Sophie lied smoothly. “It’s been a long time. Some things are still a bit… fuzzy.”
“I can imagine,” Beatrice sniffed, clearly not believing a word.
Sophie chanced another glance at Chase Sandon. He hadn’t moved. His stare was relentless, a physical weight pressing down on her. He wasn’t intrigued. He was hunting.
And she was his prey.
