The air in the sunroom felt like it was thickening, turning into a vacuum that threatened to collapse Seraphina's lungs.
Alexander stood over her, the sketchbook held in his large hand like a piece of incriminating evidence.
"I'll ask you one more time," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken register.
"Who drew this? Because the Selene Vance I know doesn't have the patience to sit still for five minutes, let alone capture the anatomy of a flower with this much precision."
Seraphina's mind raced. If she denied it, he'd think she had a lover hiding in the house. If she admitted she was Seraphina, the game was over, and her father would be in a jail cell by morning.
She did the only thing a cornered animal could do. She attacked.
Seraphina stood up, her chair scraping harshly against the marble. She snatched the book from his hand, her eyes flashing with a feigned, sharp indignation.
"You're right, Alexander," she snapped, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with a calculated hurt.
"I didn't draw that for you. I drew it for me. Because in this house, in my father's house, and in your world, I am nothing but a mannequin for expensive clothes and land deeds."
Alexander's eyes narrowed, his body tensing as if he were preparing to strike.
"Don't play the martyr with me, Selene. It doesn't suit you."
"Doesn't it?" Seraphina stepped closer, invading his personal space, banking on the fact that his confusion would buy her time.
"You spent six months engaged to me and never once asked what I did when I wasn't at a club. You assumed I was shallow because it made it easier for you to treat me like a transaction. I took lessons in secret. I painted in the dark. I wanted to have one thing—just one thing—that didn't belong to the Vance or Thorne names."
It was a brilliant half-truth. She did paint in the dark, and she did feel like a transaction. She was using her own pain to protect her sister's identity.
Alexander stared at her. For the first time, the "Ice King" looked genuinely unsettled. He looked at the sketchbook, then back at her face, searching for the lie.
"Lessons?" he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.
"Yes. Not that you'd care. Now, if you're finished interrogating me, I have a headache."
She turned to leave, but his hand shot out, catching her by the wrist. His grip was firm, his skin searingly hot against her cold flesh.
He pulled her back toward him until her chest almost brushed his silk vest.
"If you have this much 'hidden talent,'" he whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips,
"Then tonight should be effortless for you."
"Tonight?"
"The St. Jude's Charity Gala. It's an art auction," Alexander said, a predatory smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"The city's elite will be there. Critics. Gallery owners. If you're the artist you claim to be, you won't mind giving a short speech on the contemporary pieces we're donating."
Seraphina's heart stopped. A speech? In front of art critics? One wrong word about a brushstroke or a movement, and they would see right through her.
"I... I'm not ready for that," she stammered.
"You'll be ready," Alexander commanded, releasing her wrist.
"Or I'll start wondering what else you've been 'practising' in the dark. Be ready by seven. Wear the midnight blue. It matches your... new personality."
He turned and strode out of the room, leaving Seraphina standing in the silence, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Seraphina spent the afternoon in a state of high-functioning panic. She had to study the Thorne family's art collection, memorise names, and—most importantly—ensure her wig was pinned so tightly it wouldn't budge during the gala.
Around 4:00 PM, while she was practising her "Selene" walk in front of the mirror, her personal phone—the one hidden in her drawer, not the one Alexander gave her—began to vibrate.
Her breath hitched. Only one person had this number.
She answered it, her voice a frantic whisper. "Selene? Where are you? You have to come back. Alexander is starting to—"
"Sera, shut up and listen."
Her twin's voice was raspy, accompanied by the loud, thumping bass of a club in the background. Selene sounded high, or drunk, or both.
"I'm in the city, Sera. But my cards are blocked. Dad blocked my accounts!" Selene hissed.
"I'm at the Sapphire Lounge. I need fifty thousand dollars by tonight or Pierre is going to leave me, and I'll have to sell my engagement watch."
"Fifty thousand? Selene, I'm literally living in your house pretending to be you! I don't have that kind of money!"
"Then ask your 'husband' for it," Selene laughed, a sharp, jagged sound.
"Tell him you need a new bag. If I don't get the money, Sera, I'm coming to that gala tonight. I'll walk right up to Alexander Thorne and tell him he's been sleeping in the same house with a boring little mouse in a wig."
"Selene, you wouldn't—"
"Try me. Fifty thousand. Tonight. Or the mask comes off."
The line went dead.
Seraphina stared at the phone, her reflection in the mirror looking back with wide, terrified eyes. She was trapped between two monsters: a husband who was starting to hunt the truth, and a sister who was willing to burn them all down for a thrill.
She looked at the midnight blue dress hanging on the wardrobe. It looked like an armour.
She had three hours to find fifty thousand dollars, charm the art world, and keep the Ice King from realising his wife was a ghost.