The Whitmore Foundation charity gala glittered with wealth and ambition, a sea of designer gowns and calculated smiles. I smoothed down my ivory silk gown, feeling the familiar weight of eyes following my every move.
Three years of standing beside Arthur through poverty and disgrace had made me an object of fascination in these circles.
Tonight, they watched for a different reason—to witness my humiliation.
I caught Arthur's reflection in one of the ballroom's gilded mirrors. He stood across the room, his tall frame commanding attention in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, deliberately angled toward Clementine Isolde. His childhood friend…
… And the woman who had murdered my sister Iris.
None of them knew that.
