Cold water hit my face like a slap.
I jolted awake, gasping, choking on water that flooded my nose and mouth. My eyes flew open to see Mother standing over my bed, an empty crystal glass in her hand and murder in her eyes. "Wake up, you slug," she hissed.
I sat up, coughing, wiping water from my face with shaking hands. My head pounded, and my mouth tasted like metal and something bitter.
And then the memories hit me.
The study. The man in black. His voice telling me Richard Ashford wasn't my father. The silver flash of a needle. The sharp, burning pain in my neck.
Celeste.
My hand flew to my throat. There was no wound. No blood. Just smooth, unmarked skin.
Was it… was it a dream?
"Have you gone completely mad?" Mother's voice cut through my confusion. She stared at me like I was something disgusting she had found in the garbage. "You have twenty minutes to get ready."
I blinked at her, still disoriented. My room was bright with morning sunlight. How long had I been asleep?
"Get ready for what?" My voice came out raspy. Rough.
Her jaw tightened. "Your father's investor conference, you fool. The annual Ashford Holdings presentation? The one he's been planning for months? Or did you conveniently forget about that too?"
Right. The conference. Father's biggest event of the year where he paraded the family around like show ponies to impress shareholders and secure investments.
I had completely forgotten.
"I don't—"
"Twenty minutes, Anastasia." She set the empty glass on my nightstand with a sharp click. "And don't think for one second that I've forgotten what you did to your sister last night, you witch. The only reason you're not locked in this room is because your father insists on maintaining appearances."
She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "If you embarrass this family today, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?"
I didn't answer, and after a few seconds she slammed the door behind her. I sat there, soaked and shaking, staring at nothing.
Should I tell them?
About the man in black? About him breaking into Father's study? About what he had said?
Richard Ashford is not your father.
No. No, I couldn't.
They wouldn't believe me. They never believed me. They would probably say I was making it up for attention. That I was trying to cause drama after last night's "incident."
And if it had been real, if that man had been real and not some stress-induced hallucination, then telling the Ashfords would only put me in more danger.
Besides, how had I even gotten back to my room? The last thing I remembered was the darkness swallowing me in Father's study. Had he carried me here? Had he tucked me into bed like some kind of twisted fairytale?
The thought made my skin crawl.
I forced myself out of bed. My clothes from last night were gone; someone had changed me into pajamas. The idea of Mother or one of the staff undressing my unconscious body made me feel sick.
Twenty minutes.
I showered in record time, scrubbing the lingering grogginess from my skin. The hot water helped clear my head, but I couldn't stop touching my neck. Checking for a wound that wasn't there.
You'll wake up in a few hours. You'll think this was a dream.
His words echoed in my mind. But it hadn't been a dream. I knew it hadn't.
I threw on a simple black dress, appropriate for a corporate event, boring enough that I wouldn't draw attention. Minimal makeup. Hair pulled back in a neat bun.
The perfect invisible daughter.
When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My eyes were hollow. My cheeks still bore faint red marks from Mother's slaps.
But I looked presentable. Professional.
Good enough for the Ashfords.
~
The Ashford Holdings headquarters was downtown, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that Father loved to brag about. The investor conference was held in the grand ballroom on the twentieth floor, hundreds of shareholders, business partners, and journalists all gathered to hear Father's annual presentation.
I stood at the back of the room, trying to be invisible as usual.
Father was on stage, confident and commanding in his custom suit. He talked about quarterly earnings and expansion plans, his voice booming through the sound system. Graphs and charts flashed across the massive screens behind him. The crowd was eating it up.
"The Ashford family has always prioritized legacy," Father said, and the camera panned to where Mother sat in the front row, looking elegant and proud. "Family values. Integrity. Innovation."
I resisted the urge to laugh.
The presentation ended to thunderous applause. Father stepped down from the stage, immediately swarmed by admirers and journalists.
I stayed in my corner, watching. That was when I saw them.
Vivienne, glowing in a white maternity dress, her hand resting on her belly in that way pregnant women did, protective and proud. Beside her, Christopher. His hand on her lower back. Smiling at something she said.
They looked happy. Perfect.
Like they hadn't destroyed me less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Is that Christopher Whitmore?"
"With Vivienne Ashford? I heard rumors they were together—"
"She's pregnant! Look at her!"
"What a power couple. The Ashford and Whitmore families finally united."
"Didn't he used to date the other daughter? The weird one?"
"Who cares? He clearly made the right choice."
I dug my nails into my palms, using the pain to keep myself grounded. Cameras flashed. Journalists swarmed toward Vivienne and Christopher like sharks scenting blood.
"Miss Ashford! Can you confirm you and Mr. Whitmore are expecting?"
"When's the wedding?"
"How does it feel to be joining two of New York's most prominent families?"
Vivienne laughed, that musical sound she had perfected years ago. "We're so excited to start our family together. Christopher is going to be an amazing father."
More flashes. More questions.
I felt sick.
Who had that man been last night?
Why had he called me Celeste?
What had he meant when he said Richard Ashford wasn't my father?
The questions circled in my mind like vultures.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. I pulled it out, expecting another passive-aggressive text from Mother about my posture or my expression or something equally ridiculous.
But the message was from an unknown number.
Unknown: Are you thinking about me?
My heart stopped. I stared at the screen, fingers frozen. It was him. It had to be him. My hands shook as I typed back.
Me: Who are you?
The response came immediately.
Unknown: Someone who knows the truth about you, Celeste.
Unknown: Meet me. I'll send you an address.
Me: Why would I do that?
Unknown: Because you want answers. Right?
My breath caught.
He was right.
Unknown: Besides, it's not like you'll be missed.
The words shouldn't have hurt, but they did, because he was right about that too.
A new message popped up. An address. Some warehouse district on the east side.
I looked around the ballroom. Father was still surrounded by admirers. Mother was networking with the wives of board members. Vivienne and Christopher were posing for photos, her hand on her belly, his arm around her shoulders.
No one was looking at me.
No one ever looked at me.
Me: Fine.
I slipped out of the ballroom before anyone could notice I was gone. Not that they would.
~
The address led me to the warehouse district, just like he had said. Abandoned buildings and chain-link fences. Not exactly the kind of place a smart woman went alone to meet a stranger who had drugged her.
But I apparently wasn't a smart woman.
I was a desperate one.
The specific building was an old converted loft. Industrial and expensive, despite the sketchy neighborhood. I stood outside the door, hand raised to knock, heart pounding.
This was insane.
I should have turned around. Gone home. Forgotten any of this had ever happened.
But I couldn't.
Because what if he was telling the truth?
What if Richard Ashford really wasn't my father?
What if everything I knew about my life was a lie?
I knocked, and the door opened immediately. Standing there, no mask this time, was the most devastatingly handsome man I had ever seen.
Dark brown hair. Sharp jawline. Those same intense gray eyes from last night, but now I could see his full face, angular and striking and dangerous.
My brain took a second to catch up, to process what I was seeing.
And then it hit me.
I knew this face.
I had seen it in magazines. On the covers of Forbes and Business Weekly. In the society pages that Mother obsessively read.
"Vincent Torres?" I gasped, my eyes widening. "You're—you're Vincent Torres?"
Vincent fucking Torres. Billionaire tech mogul. The man who had built an empire before he turned thirty. The one businessman Father actually seemed intimidated by.
The man every socialite in New York, including Vivienne, had been desperately trying to catch the attention of for years.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"Hello, Celeste," he said, and his voice was smooth. "Come in. We have a lot to discuss."