Chapter 2 - THE BRIDE’S MOTHERThe woman in the reflection could not have been Serafina.
The photograph was nearly twenty years old.
But the resemblance was impossible to ignore.
Same high cheekbones.
Same dark, almond-shaped eyes.
Same way of holding her chin as though every room already belonged to her.
Marin waited until the guard left before showing Cassian.
He carried the photograph beneath the brass desk lamp in his study and examined the warped reflection in the silver medical case.
“That’s Lenora Bowmont,” he said.
“Serafina’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why was she here?”
“She wasn’t supposed to be.”
The answer came too quickly.
Marin crossed her arms.
“That sentence is becoming common in this house.”
Cassian ignored the comment.
“Lenora was engaged to my uncle at the time.”
“Your father’s brother?”
“Adrian Marquette.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died six months later.”
“Natural causes?”
Cassian looked at her.
She exhaled.
“Of course not.”
“His boat exploded in the harbor.”
“And Lenora?”
“She married August Bowmont the following year.”
Serafina’s father.
The pieces sat before them like fragments of broken glass.
A teenage Cassian shot while protecting his father.
Marin’s mother secretly treating him.
Teddy watching.
Lenora Bowmont taking the photograph.
Then Adrian Marquette dying.
Lenora marrying into the rival family.
“You still planned to marry Serafina,” Marin said.
“Our fathers arranged the agreement.”
“Did you love her?”
Cassian’s gaze lifted.
The question had slipped out before Marin could stop it.
“That is irrelevant.”
“That means no.”
“It means our relationship was not built on affection.”
“Then what was it built on?”
“Peace.”
Marin laughed without humor.
“A peace ceremony that would have ended with you bleeding through your shirt and both families reaching for guns.”
“Yes.”
“Your world has strange definitions.”
“So does yours.”
“My world?”
“You cut open the chest of a man you believed could kill you for speaking.”
“Because you were going to bleed to death.”
“You had no reason to care.”
She looked away.
“My grandmother taught me not to ignore bad stitching.”
Cassian stepped closer.
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
“What was the reason?”
Marin met his eyes.
“Because everyone else in the room was looking at the marble.”
Something shifted between them.
Before Cassian could answer, the study door opened.
June stood there in a borrowed robe.
Marin rushed toward her.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
June Holloway was twenty-one, six years younger than Marin, with a narrow face and eyes too large since the illness had taken weight from her. She looked fragile.
She was not.
June had survived three surgeries, two years of treatments, and a father who vanished when things became expensive.
She had inherited their grandmother’s temper.
“I heard someone died,” June said.
Cassian nodded to the guard behind her.
“Who allowed her downstairs?”
June answered before anyone else could.
“No one allows me to do things.”
Marin almost smiled.
Then June saw the photograph.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you get that?”
Marin froze.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No.”
June stepped closer.
“But I’ve seen the dress.”
She pointed to the reflection of Lenora.
“In Mom’s storage box.”
Marin’s stomach tightened.
“What storage box?”
“The one at Grandma’s house.”
“You never told me.”
“I thought you knew.”
“June.”
“You were the one who packed everything after Grandma died.”
“I packed the house. I never saw a white dress.”
“It was in the crawl space under her bedroom.”
Marin remembered the house.
The narrow hall.
The lavender wallpaper.
Her grandmother’s bedroom overlooking a neglected garden.
They had sold it six months after the funeral.
“Who owns the house now?” Cassian asked.
June shrugged.
“No idea.”
Cassian was already reaching for his phone.
Marin touched his arm.
“We are not sending armed men into someone’s home.”
“If your mother left evidence—”
“We ask.”
“We don’t know who lives there.”
“That is why people invented doors.”
June looked between them.
“You two argue like you’ve been married for ten years.”
Marin pulled her hand away from Cassian.
“We do not.”
Cassian’s mouth almost curved.
Almost.
Two hours later, they were driving toward the old Holloway house.
Cassian insisted on coming.
So did Marco DeLuca, his head of security, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw and the patience of a tired priest.
June remained at the mansion under medical supervision.
The house looked smaller than Marin remembered.
The current owner was a retired teacher named Mrs. Fallon, who recognized Marin immediately.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” the woman said.
Marin had heard that sentence all her life.
Today it felt like a warning.
Mrs. Fallon allowed them inside.
The lavender wallpaper was gone.
The floor creaked in the same places.
Marin knelt beside the crawl-space panel while Cassian watched the hallway.
The box remained there.
Dusty.
Locked.
Marin used an old fireplace poker to break the latch.
Inside lay the white dress.
It was not a wedding gown.
It was a nurse’s dress stained brown at the cuffs.
Blood.
Beneath it rested letters tied with blue ribbon.
A photograph of Evelyn holding baby Marin.
A medical instrument roll.
And a small black notebook.
Cassian crouched beside her.
Marin opened the notebook.
The first pages contained medication doses and names.
Then the handwriting became frantic.
C. shot through upper chest. Bullet path inconsistent with position described.
T.V. brought instruments but attempted to replace sutures.
L.B. witnessed everything.
Adrian knows.
Must keep Marin away from them.
Marin’s throat closed.
Cassian read over her shoulder.
“T.V.,” he said.
“Teddy Vance.”
“And L.B. is Lenora Bowmont.”
Marin turned the page.
The next entry was dated three days before Adrian Marquette died.
Adrian says Teddy serves neither family.
He serves the ledger.
There were no more entries.
Only a folded sheet tucked inside the back cover.
Cassian unfolded it.
A list of names.
Judges.
Police officers.
Dock supervisors.
Doctors.
Men from the Marquette family.
Men from the Bowmont family.
At the bottom, written twice, was one name.
Teddy Vance.
A sound came from upstairs.
Marco raised his gun.
Mrs. Fallon was in the garden.
No one else should have been inside.
Cassian motioned for Marin to stay down.
He and Marco moved toward the stairs.
Marin ignored the order and followed.
They reached the landing.
A bedroom door swung open.
A masked man fired.
The shot struck the wall beside Cassian’s head.
Marco returned fire.
The masked man vanished through the bedroom window.
Cassian ran after him.
Marin entered the bedroom and saw the curtains moving.
Then she saw the gas can.
The intruder had not come for them.
He had come to burn the house.
Flames rose along the back wall.
“Cassian!”
Smoke filled the room.
Marco grabbed the notebook.
Marin seized the box.
Cassian climbed back through the broken window.
“He’s gone.”
“Fire!”
They ran downstairs.
Mrs. Fallon screamed from the garden as smoke poured through the roof.
Cassian took the heavy box from Marin and carried it outside.
Firefighters arrived within minutes.
Too late to save the upper floor.
As Marin watched her grandmother’s bedroom burn, Cassian stood beside her.
“They knew we were coming,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Only four people knew.”
“You. Me. June. Marco.”
“And whoever is watching your mansion.”
Cassian’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed immediately.
“What happened?”
A voice shouted through the speaker.
Cassian turned toward the car.
“Where is she?”
Marin’s stomach dropped.
“Cassian.”
He ended the call.
“June is gone.”
The world stopped.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“The medical room is empty.”
“No.”
“The guard outside was drugged.”
Marin grabbed his jacket.
“You promised she was safe.”
Cassian looked at her, and for the first time she saw something beneath his control.
Guilt.
“Marin—”
“You promised.”
His phone buzzed again.
A message.
A photograph of June sitting in a chair, pale but alive.
Behind her stood Serafina Bowmont.
The former bride smiled into the camera.
May you like
Below the photograph was a single sentence.
BRING ME MY MOTHER’S DRESS, OR YOUR SISTER GETS THE FINAL STITCH.
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