The town car carried them away from the glittering museum, the silence inside now a different entity. It was no longer just the absence of sound, but a thick, charged space filled with everything that had been said and left unsaid. The ghost of Klaus's hand on her back seemed to linger on Britney's skin, a brand of his calculated protection.
He was back on his tablet, the blue light illuminating his profile, his focus absolute. The moment was over. The "valuable analyst" had been returned to her box.
Britney looked out the window at the passing lights, the adrenaline of the evening slowly ebbing, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake. She had survived. She had even, in a small way, thrived. But the victory felt hollow. She was playing a part in a story that was fundamentally hers, yet she was following a script written by Klaus Smith.
Her phone, tucked inside her clutch, buzzed softly. She pulled it out, the screen illuminating the dim car.
Unknown: Enjoy your night as the temporary accessory? Don't get used to the view from his arm. It's borrowed. You'll be back in the shadows where you belong by morning. -S
Serene. Of course. The venom was a perverse comfort, a reminder that the battle lines were still drawn. Klaus might see her as an asset, but Serene saw her as a threat. In a twisted way, it was more honest.
She didn't reply. She simply deleted the message, a small, defiant act. She wouldn't let Serene poison this, too.
The car glided to a smooth stop in front of her apartment building. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the opulence they had just left—a modest, slightly worn-down building that suddenly seemed to belong to a different lifetime.
Klaus finally looked up from his tablet. His gaze swept from her face to her building and back again, his expression unreadable. "The car will pick you up at seven-thirty on Monday."
"Thank you, sir," she said, her hand on the door handle. "For… for the dress. For the…" She trailed off, unsure how to summarize the surreal evening.
"It was a strategic investment," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "It performed adequately."
Adequate. The word should have stung. But tonight, she'd seen him use it as a shield. It was his highest form of praise, stripped of all sentiment.
"Right," she said, a small, wry smile touching her lips. "Well. Goodnight."
She slipped out of the car before he could respond, the emerald silk whispering as she walked toward her building. She didn't look back. She knew he wouldn't be watching.
Inside her quiet apartment, the reality of the evening crashed down upon her. She carefully hung up the devastatingly expensive dress, the "armor" now looking out of place next to her simple wardrobe. She felt a pang of something—longing? regret?—as she placed the delicate clutch on her dresser.
She changed into her soft, worn cotton pajamas, the normalcy of the action grounding her. As she was washing her face, her phone buzzed again. She expected another message from Serene.
It wasn't.
It was an email. The sender was her own, personal email address. The subject line made her blood run cold.
Subject: Who Do You Think You Are?
Her heart began to hammer. She opened it.
The body of the email was empty.
But there were attachments. Three grainy, black-and-white photographs.
The first was of a much younger version of the woman she called Mom—Lorraine Finch—standing on the grand steps of a building that looked suspiciously like Finch Publishing, holding a baby wrapped in a plain blanket. Her face was turned away from the camera, nervous.
The second was a document. A birth certificate. For Britney Carter. But in the field for "Place of Birth," it listed St. Mary's Hospital, an exclusive private hospital she knew the Carter family could never have afforded.
The third photo was the most damning. It was a close-up of two babies side-by-side. One, swaddled in a monogrammed, lace-trimmed blanket, had a tiny, distinct birthmark on her wrist. The other, in a simple white cloth, did not. Scrawled in ink at the bottom was a date. Britney's birthday.
Britney's hands trembled so violently she almost dropped the phone. She stumbled back, sinking onto her bed, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
This was it. Proof. Not just a DNA match on a website, but tangible, photographic evidence of the switch. Someone knew. Someone was sending this to her.
But who? And why?
Her mind raced. It wasn't Klaus. His methods were direct, corporate. This was cloak-and-dagger. It wasn't Serene—this was the last thing she would ever want Britney to see.
Could it be… Lorraine? A sudden, shocking burst of conscience from the woman who had raised her? It seemed impossible. The woman was perpetually anxious, cowed by life, fiercely protective of the secret she'd built her life upon.
Britney stared at the photo of the two babies. She looked at her own wrist. The birthmark was there, faint but unmistakable. She had always had it.
A sob caught in her throat, part terror, part elation. This was real. It was undeniable.
Another email arrived. From the same anonymous sender.
Subject: Re: Who Do You Think You Are?
Some secrets aren't meant to stay buried. Some doors, once opened, can't be closed. Be careful who you trust.
The message was clear. Someone was giving her the keys to the kingdom, but warning her the throne was surrounded by knives.
All the confidence she'd felt at the gala, under Klaus's protective wing, evaporated. This was bigger than corporate espionage or social one-upmanship. This was her life. Her identity. And someone, a shadow in the digital world, was pulling the strings.
She thought of James Finch's warm eyes, so full of unknowing appreciation. Of Lora's distant politeness. Of Serene's vicious desperation.
She thought of Klaus. "It was a strategic investment. It performed adequately."
He had provided her with armor for a social skirmish. But this was a war for her very soul, and she was suddenly alone in the trenches with an anonymous benefactor who might be a friend or a foe.
The emerald dress hung on her closet door, a beautiful, empty symbol of a battle that had already been superseded. The real war had just begun, and it was being waged in the darkness of her inbox.
She had the proof. Now, she had to decide what to do with it. And she had to discover who, in the shadows, had just handed it to her.