Sylvie watched in heartbreak as Tavish’s fiancée Benedetta ripped a photograph of the toddler’s missing mother from an album, dropped it into a fountain, and cruelly whispered that it was just another secret and another piece of her mother.

Benedetta’s breath caught in her throat. The fair skin along her collarbone flushed an angry, mottled pink as she realized what had slipped past her teeth.

"I meant the family, Tavish," Benedetta said quickly, smoothing the silk of her gown with shaking fingers. "Your family. The Rookfield holdings. You know what she took before she vanished into thin air."

"Clara vanished with nothing but the clothes on her back and the watch my father gave her," Tavish said, his tone devoid of inflection. "She took no accounts. She took no bearer bonds. So tell me, Benedetta. What did she steal from you?"

"Ask your daughter!" Benedetta cried, her composure shattering completely. "Ask the little brat what’s hidden inside the cover!"

With sudden, reckless ferocity, Benedetta lunged past Tavish’s left shoulder, her manicured fingers clawing straight for the small velvet book in Sylvie’s grip.

Tavish moved without wasted motion. His right forearm rose, intercepting Benedetta’s outstretched hand mid-air and breaking her momentum with an immovable block. Benedetta snarled, swinging her left hand toward his cheek in a wild, frantic arc.

Tavish didn't flinch. He slipped his chin half an inch to the right, letting the blow glance off empty air, and delivered one sharp, open-handed slap across Benedetta’s cheek.

The sound cracked through the ballroom like the snap of a whip.

Benedetta stumbled sideways on her four-inch heels, her balance collapsing as she crashed hard onto the upholstered bench. Her flailing arm struck the adjacent side table; a stack of fifty linen napkins tumbled into the air, fluttering across the polished floorboards and settling around her sprawling heels.

Silence rolled across the grand ballroom in a suffocating wave.

The clinking of champagne flutes stopped dead. The string quartet mid-waltz halted their bows above the strings. Two hundred guests froze, staring at the woman on the bench and the towering man standing over her.

Before Benedetta could push herself upright, a broad-shouldered bodyguard named Marcus stepped into the perimeter, planting himself like a monolith between the bench and the child.

"Stay down, Miss Vance," Marcus muttered under his breath, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where his sidearm sat holstered.

Tavish did not look at the fallen woman. He bent down on one knee, his heavy wool overcoat brushing the scattered napkins.

Sylvie stepped forward, her small frame trembling against the lapel of his tailored suit. With tiny, shaking fingers, she flipped the album open, turning past the water-damaged pictures of her mother until she reached the heavy cardboard of the back cover.

Beneath a wide strip of clear packing tape sat a small, tarnished brass key, no longer than a child’s pinky finger.

Tavish’s eyes locked onto the metal.

Benedetta rose halfway from the velvet cushions, her eyes wide, wild, and fixed on the glint of brass. "Give that to me! Tavish, don't look at it! Don't let her touch it!"

Sylvie looked up into her father’s face, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air handlers.

"Mommy said this opens Grandma’s room," Sylvie whispered. "She said if you ever forgot her, I had to give it to you."

Tavish’s jaw tightened until the muscles corded like iron cables along his throat. He slowly extended his thumb, his heavy gold signet ring reflecting the chandelier light as he closed the small album with infinite gentleness.

He stood up to his full height, turning his dark gaze directly toward the bench.

Every nearby guest turned toward the low, deliberate rumble of his voice.

"My mother’s room?" Tavish asked, stepping toward Benedetta until his shadow completely swallowed her. "You told me it was empty. You told me you personally cleared it out after her funeral."