Chapter 3

The Moretti estate stood outside the city. High walls. Iron gates. Armed Soldatos lined in two perfect rows. As the car pulled in, searchlights swept across the windows, painfully bright. When they helped me out of the SUV and led me inside, everyone in the courtyard stopped moving. Dozens of eyes landed on me at once. Like dozens of needles. An older man hurried toward us. The moment he saw my face, the tablet in his hand almost slipped to the ground. "Dear God..." His lips trembled. "Mrs. Moretti..." His eyes were wide, as if he had seen a ghost. "She has amnesia, Enzo," Rafael cut in. "Get the doctors. The best ones. And the ones who know how to keep their mouths shut." The man named Enzo— I later learned he was the family's Consigliere— had red-rimmed eyes. "We held a funeral for you, ma'am." His voice shook. "Two years ago. There was a burned body. We all thought... we thought it was you." So I had died once. Somewhere inside this house I didn't remember, another version of me had been mourned. Buried. I stood in the center of the grand hall beneath the spill of crystal chandeliers, but none of their light warmed me. I felt like a thief who had wandered into someone else's memories. Lost. Afraid to move. An oil portrait hung on the wall. A woman in profile. I couldn't tell if she was me. Framed photographs sat on polished tables, every smiling face carefully wiped clean of dust. Every object in the room silently reminded me that another woman had once lived here. A woman with a home. A husband. An entire family's loyalty. And I stood there like the shadow she had left behind, afraid to even step too loudly. Then came the sound of heels on the staircase. One step. Another. Slow and unhurried. A woman descended with one hand on the railing. Red dress. Perfect makeup. Perfume so strong it choked the air. The moment she saw me, she stopped. For one brief second, her expression cracked. Then she put it back together. "Rafael." She hurried forward and naturally slipped her arm through his. "Who is this?" Rafael pulled away stiffly, as if her touch had burned him. "Camilla." His voice held no warmth. "This is my wife." The woman named Camilla smiled. A beautiful smile. But her eyes were as cold as glass. "I thought your wife was dead." She tilted her head and looked at me, her gaze scraping over my face like a knife. "This poor woman does resemble her a little. But has someone put her up to this? Is she pretending to be someone she's not just to get money from the Morettis?" With every word she spoke, she watched Rafael from the corner of her eye. Measuring his reaction. I remembered nothing. But instinctively, I understood what she couldn't hide. She wasn't only questioning an impostor. There was something else buried in her gaze. Wariness. Fear. I didn't speak. I was too busy smelling her perfume. That heavy gardenia scent made my stomach twist hard enough that bile rose in my throat. I had smelled it before. Not in this house. Somewhere earlier. Somewhere darker. Colder. The image came again. Only half a second. A rainy night. A sealed car. That exact perfume. And Camilla's voice beside my ear, soft enough to be almost kind. "I'm sorry, Sera. But you saw something you shouldn't have." A sound tore out of me as I grabbed my head. My knees gave way. Rafael caught me instantly, his palm burning hot against me. "Sera? What is it?" I lifted my head and stared at Camilla without blinking. Her smile froze inch by inch. "The night it rained," I said, forcing the words through my teeth even though I didn't yet understand them myself. "You were in the car." The hall went silent enough to hear a pin drop. Every pair of eyes moved between me and Camilla. The wineglass in Camilla's hand shattered against the marble floor. Red wine spread outward like blood.