Reign's manicured nails dug into the glossy page of the society magazine, crinkling the photograph that had appeared in the 'Around Town' section. There, in grainy black and white, stood Celine Taylor—or someone who looked exactly like her—entering the funeral parlor on Forty-Ninth Street. The caption read simply: 'Mystery woman resembles Taylor heiress, presumed dead in 2017 fire.'
Reign's breath came in short, controlled gasps. Six years. Six years she'd spent building her life, her marriage, her place in the Henderson dynasty. Six years believing Celine Taylor was ash and bone, reduced to nothing but a tragic footnote in the society pages.
She set the magazine down on the marble kitchen island with deliberate care. Her hands were steady, but her pulse hammered against her throat. She'd learned long ago that panic was a luxury she couldn't afford. Panic made mistakes. Panic got caught.
'Celine,' she whispered the name to the empty kitchen, testing its weight. It felt like speaking a curse.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Atlas's number. He answered on the fourth ring, his voice distracted, distant.
'Reign? What is it? I'm in the middle of something.'
'You need to come home,' she said, her voice honey-sweet, the way it always was when she needed something. 'Now.'
She ended the call and walked to the window of their penthouse, looking out over the Manhattan skyline. Somewhere out there, Celine was breathing the same air. Planning. Watching. The thought made her skin crawl.
When Atlas arrived twenty minutes later, she was waiting in his study, the magazine open on his desk.
'What's this?' he asked, though she could see in his eyes that he already knew.
'She's alive,' Reign said simply. 'She's back.'
His face went pale. 'It could be a mistake. A lookalike. The photo isn't clear.'
'Don't.' Reign's voice cut like glass. 'Don't lie to me. Not now.'
He flinched. Good. She needed him off-balance, needed him to remember who held the power here.
'Have you seen her?' she pressed.
'No,' he said too quickly. 'I told you, I've been busy with the Henderson merger. I haven't seen anyone.'
Reign smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. 'You're a terrible liar, darling. Almost as bad as when you told me you'd never loved her.'
She watched the guilt flicker across his face, followed by something else—something that made her blood run cold. Longing. He was longing for her.
'Find her,' Reign said, her voice suddenly businesslike. 'I want to know where she is, who she's with, what she wants. And I want it yesterday.'
Across town, in a nondescript office building, Victor Hale spread the financial records across the conference table. Celine stood at the head of the table, her fingers tracing the columns of numbers.
'The mechanic received fifty thousand dollars in cash the week before your parents' accident,' Victor said, his voice crisp, professional. 'No record of where it came from. No paper trail.'
'And the mechanic?' Celine asked, though she already knew the answer.
'Died six months later. Mugging gone wrong in Brooklyn. Police ruled it a robbery.' Victor's mouth twisted. 'Convenient.'
Celine nodded, absorbing the information. 'What about the brake lines?'
'Tampered with, just like we suspected. The police report was buried, marked as an accident. Someone paid to make it go away.'
She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the familiar ache of grief and rage. When she opened them again, they were cold, focused.
'Keep digging,' she said. 'I want everything. Every transaction, every phone call, every person who touched that car. I want to know who paid the mechanic, who buried the report, and who stood to gain from my parents' death.'
Victor nodded, already making notes. 'We're close, Celine. Very close.'
She gathered the papers, organizing them into a neat stack. 'Not close enough,' she said quietly. 'Not until I have everything I need to bury them both.'
In the silence of the empty office, she pulled out her phone and sent a single text to Legend: 'It's time to move.'
