Four-inch stilettos met marble. Slow. Measured. Unapologetic.
Every head turned.
I walked in wearing midnight blue, the fabric hugging me like it had been designed with reverence. My posture was straight, my expression calm. Not defiant. Not bitter.
Certain.
Behind me walked four children.
Identical. Perfect. Four pairs of gray eyes—his eyes—set in faces so similar it was almost unsettling. They moved in sync, small hands folded, expressions solemn but curious.
A murmur rippled through the room.
Arthur Sterling finally looked up.
His champagne flute slipped from his fingers.
It shattered on the floor.
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