Chapter 5

That charity gala was supposed to be my first appearance, in front of everyone, as a Hartwell. Crystal chandeliers, a champagne tower, a whole wall of auction lots glittering under the spotlights. I wore a plain gown and stood at the edge of the crowd, trying to look like someone who belonged there.

Sebastian was across the room, hemmed in by people talking business; the whole floor of guests stood between us. I held a glass of champagne I'd barely touched and counted the bubbles rising up the side of it, one by one — an old habit when I'm nervous; the more people there are, the more I need something to count. The display case was just ahead and to my left, the spotlight pooling on an emerald necklace, green as deep water. I looked at it a beat too long. Later I'd learn that those two glances became, in someone else's mouth, the "evidence" against me.

Halfway through the evening, just as the host was about to invite Sebastian up to speak, a commotion broke out over by the display case — the night's headline lot, an emerald necklace worth a fortune, was gone.

Security sealed the doors. Every gaze in the room, as if swept by a single invisible hand, turned and landed on me.

"Just now, I think I saw—" Vivian covered her mouth, all reluctant hesitation. "No. I shouldn't say. But — before the gala started, Nora was the only one who spent any time alone near that case."

Whispers ran through the crowd. "Just what you'd expect, no upbringing." "I said it — people who come from nowhere…" "Three years, and here's her true colors." The words came in like needles, one after another. I could feel the blood draining out of my face.

I knew that the second I panicked — the second I broke down protesting I hadn't done it — I'd lost. That was exactly what they were waiting for. An orphan sobbing that she'd been wronged fit their story perfectly.

I drew a breath. I didn't look at Sebastian, and I didn't wait for anyone to save me.

"Search me." I lifted my head, my voice steady. "My bag, my car, my rooms at the estate. Now."

Something flickered fast at the back of Vivian's eyes. "Nora, don't get so worked up," she said gently — while one of her hands, without thinking, drew the small, exquisite clutch at her side back behind her. "It's just a misunderstanding. Why don't you just hand it over yourself? For the sake of the Hartwell name, we'll let it go tonight."

That was it. The way she pulled the clutch back.

A person who mends books learns to see, first, not the expressions on faces but the small tells people think they've hidden well: a crease that doesn't line up, one extra thread, a clutch gripped until it's out of shape. I looked at that little bag against her body, and suddenly I understood everything.

"Miss Ashford," I said, one word at a time, "I can't hand over a thing I never took. If you want it handed over — then you'd have to be the one who knows where it is."

Her face changed. "Don't you dare slander me! What proof do you have?"

I looked around, my voice quiet, and yet the whole room went still for it. "Every display case at this gala has a camera on it. The last half hour — who came, who went — it's all there, plain as day."

I looked at her, and spaced the words out. "So don't search me. Have head of security put the last half hour of footage up — in front of everyone."

For one instant, the composure on Vivian's face broke apart. She took a step back, hit the display case behind her, and went white.

— PAYWALL 1 —