It was raining. A cold, miserable New York drizzle that soaked into the bone.
It was Sienna's twentieth birthday.
She stood on the sidewalk outside the Sullivan estate. Her bags were on the wet pavement. Eleanor had followed through on her threat. She was locked out.
Inside, through the glowing windows, she could see them celebrating. Tiffany, her stepsister, was holding up a dress. It was a knock-off of one of Sienna's own designs. The irony burned in her throat.
She could call Seraphina. She could have a secure extraction team here in ten minutes. But that would mean admitting defeat. That would mean leaving the Kensington documents behind in Robert's safe.
She turned her back on the house. She had nowhere to go that wouldn't blow her cover.
She walked for miles, the water plastering her hair to her skull. She ended up in the Meatpacking District, outside a discreet, unmarked door. The Crow.
She slipped inside. The bass of the music thumped in her chest. The bartender, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, slid a drink toward her without asking.
"Happy Birthday, Ghost," he muttered.
He slid a manila envelope under the glass.
Sienna opened it. It was a genealogy report. Kensington. The name jumped out at her. Her mother wasn't a nobody. She was a disowned Kensington.
That meant the Sullivans weren't just cruel; they were thieves. They had been hiding her heritage to keep her trust fund.
She finished the drink in one swallow. The sadness evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard rage.
"Thanks, Marco."
She walked back out into the rain.
Julian sat in the back of his Rolls Royce, staring out the window. The charity gala had been suffocating. Ivy had been clinging to his arm, wearing the necklace he had just bought for three million dollars.
Eternal. That was the name of the piece.
He had bought it because it reminded him of the girl at NYU. Sharp edges. Hidden depths.
"Stop the car," Julian ordered.
The driver braked smoothly.
Julian looked out at the sidewalk. A figure was walking alone in the rain, head bowed against the wind. No umbrella. Just a soaked grey hoodie.
He recognized the posture. The defiant set of the shoulders.
He rolled down the window.
"Get in."
Sienna stopped. She looked at the car. She looked at him.
"I'm wet," she said.
"I have leather seats. They wipe clean."
She hesitated. She could walk away. She could disappear. But the file in her bag burned against her hip. The Kensingtons were connected to the Vanderbilts. If she wanted answers, she needed access.
She opened the door and slid into the warmth of the car.