Chapter4

I returned to the bedroom and dragged my suitcase from under the bed.

Unzipped it, started stuffing things inside. A few old clothes, toiletries, the coat I'd worn on our wedding day. I opened the nightstand, threw in my passport, bank cards, ID.

Then I crouched down, reaching my hand to the very back of the nightstand.

Empty.

I froze, knelt on the floor, stuck my head in to look. Nothing inside. My manuscript was gone.

I stood up and turned the entire nightstand upside down. Pulled out the drawers, dumped them on the floor. Nothing.

I opened the wardrobe, searched the top shelf. Nothing. I opened the vanity drawers, dumped everything out. Nothing.

That manuscript was missing.

It was something I'd drawn for an entire year. Star Harbor Tower—from foundation to rooftop, every steel beam, every glass panel, every angle. Over three hundred pages, all drawn by my hand stroke by stroke.

Damian had said it was the best design he'd ever seen. He said once this project won the bid, we'd go vacation in Europe. He said when the architecture magazine came to interview, my name would be published.

He'd said a lot. All bullshit, as it turned out.

I turned and rushed downstairs.

The three of them were still in the living room. Penny nestled on the sofa, Damian beside her, my mother-in-law holding a teacup.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at Damian. "Where's my manuscript?"

He looked up at me, raised an eyebrow. "What manuscript?"

"Star Harbor Tower. Over three hundred pages, I drew it for a year. That book in the nightstand."

He smiled. That smile sent chills down my spine.

"Oh that," he said. "I submitted it to the company."

"By what right?"

"By right of being the boss," he stood up, walked in front of me. "By right of you drawing that portfolio during work hours—it's a work-for-hire. Problem?"

I stared at him. "That's my design."

"You designed it, right?" He turned to glance at Penny. "Penny, bring it over."

Penny stood, pulled a magazine from under the coffee table, and handed it to him.

Damian tossed the magazine at my feet.

I looked down. On the cover was a building—Star Harbor Tower. Text beside it: Annual Best Architectural Design Award, Designer Penelope Vance.

I crouched down, picked up the magazine, opened it.

Inside, Penny in an evening gown stood on an awards platform holding a trophy. Caption below the photo: Young designer Penelope Vance rose to fame with the Star Harbor Tower project, hailed as a rising star in architecture.

I looked up at Penny.

She leaned in Damian's arms, hand on her belly, smiling at me. That smile identical to before.

"You drew this?" I asked her.

"The company assigned me the project," she said softly. "I made a few small changes, and then..."

"Bullshit."

My mother-in-law's teacup hit the coffee table hard. "How dare you talk like that?"

I ignored her, staring at Damian. "That's my blood and sweat. I drew it for a year. Every night after you fell asleep I was still drawing. You said it was the best design you'd ever seen."

"So what?" He interrupted me. "You designed it, right? Sold it to the company, right? Since you're leaving with nothing, I can give that portfolio to whoever I want."

I looked at him. This man five years ago had knelt before my parents saying he'd only love me for life. This man had stood outside my family's door for three days and nights, nearly fainting, just to get my father to agree to our marriage.

"Damian," my mother-in-law said from behind. "Stop wasting words on her. Make her leave."

Penny said softly: "Vivian, don't be angry, how about I sign a copy for you..."

I stared at her. "What did you say?"

She shrank back, hand protecting her belly. "I... I just meant, if you like this magazine, I can give you a signed copy..."

I threw the magazine on the floor.

Turned and walked upstairs.

Back in the bedroom, I sat on the bed edge. My hands were shaking. I clenched my fists, suppressing that tremor.

Laughter came from downstairs again. Penny's laughter, my mother-in-law's laughter, Damian's laughter.

I stood up and walked to the window. Outside it was dark, streetlights on.

Car lights flashed at the gate. A black sedan parked by the curb. Someone got out, walking toward the front door.

I didn't pay attention. Kept packing.

A knock on the door.

I walked over and opened it. The butler stood outside holding an envelope. "Madam, your letter. From Switzerland."

Switzerland?

I took the envelope and closed the door.

The envelope was thick, cream-colored, edges trimmed with gold thread. I tore open the seal and dumped out the contents.

A key fell on the bed. Copper-colored, old, looked like it belonged to a luxurious castle.

I picked it up to look—letters engraved on the key handle, couldn't understand them.

And a piece of paper. Folded—I opened it. A document.

Top line: DNA Identification Report.

I read down. In the name column: my name, Vivian Sinclair. The column beside it: another name, Anastasia Sinclair.

Anastasia Maria Sinclair, Duchess of Rothschild, one of Europe's oldest noble families, personally owning three castles, two auction houses, and an art collection worth over two billion euros.

My breath caught.

Further down, the last line: After identification, both parties are confirmed to be direct blood relatives in a grandparent-grandchild relationship.