Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be DeadVictoria had seen Sarah Rosewood’s name only once.

It was written in black ink beneath a baby photograph in an old family album her grandmother kept locked in the library. Victoria had been twelve when she found it. The baby in the picture had soft brown curls and one tiny hand raised toward the camera.

When Victoria asked who she was, her grandmother had slammed the album shut.

“Your aunt Sarah,” she had said. “She died before you were born. Never ask again.”

For twenty years, Victoria obeyed.

Now the dead woman stood in front of her, shivering in an alley behind a restaurant, holding the same ring Victoria had worn as proof of her place in the family.

“You’re lying,” Victoria said.

Sarah gave a bitter little laugh. “I wish I were.”

Grace held her mother’s sleeve. “Mom, your hands are cold.”

Victoria saw then how sick Sarah looked. Her cheekbones were too sharp. Her lips were pale. There was a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges.

“Who hurt you?” Victoria asked.

Sarah looked toward the street. “The same people who fed you lies.”

Victoria pulled out her phone. “I’m calling a doctor.”

“No hospital.”

“You need help.”

“No hospital,” Sarah repeated, panic rising. “They check hospitals.”

Victoria studied her face. This woman was terrified in a way money could not fake.

A black SUV rolled slowly past the alley entrance.

Sarah pushed Grace behind her.

The SUV stopped.

Victoria stepped forward before she understood what she was doing. She lifted her chin, letting the streetlight hit her face.

The SUV window lowered.

A man in a dark coat looked directly at her. Recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Mrs. Vance,” he said smoothly. “Is everything all right?”

Victoria recognized him. Charles Wexler. Head of security for the Rosewood estate.

Her stomach dropped.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Your grandmother was concerned when you left dinner suddenly.”

Victoria’s mouth went dry.

“My grandmother is in Newport.”

“She has people everywhere.”

Sarah made a small sound behind her.

Charles looked past Victoria toward the woman and child in the alley.

His expression hardened.

“You should come with me,” he said. “Now.”

Victoria slid her hand behind her back and touched Grace’s shoulder.

“Run when I say,” she whispered.

Charles opened the SUV door.

Victoria smiled the same smile she used at charity galas, hostile boardrooms, and family dinners full of poison.

“Charles,” she said, “tell my grandmother if she wants me, she can call me herself.”

Then she grabbed Grace’s hand and shoved Sarah toward the opposite end of the alley.

“Run.”

They ran.

Behind them, Charles cursed.

Victoria’s heels slipped on wet pavement. Sarah stumbled twice. Grace never let go.

At the far end of the alley, they burst into a service lane, where a delivery van idled with its back doors open. The driver shouted as Victoria pulled Sarah and Grace inside.

“Drive,” Victoria snapped, throwing a diamond bracelet onto his passenger seat. “Anywhere but here.”

The van lurched forward.

Through the closing doors, Victoria saw Charles standing under the streetlight, phone to his ear.

Sarah collapsed against a stack of linen bags, gasping.

Grace crawled into her lap.

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Victoria looked at the two matching rings.

For the first time in her life, the Rosewood name felt less like a legacy and more like a crime.