hour. Each tick was a step closer to Cassie's arrival. Aria sat frozen at the dining table, tears

n't stay

reaked face with the back of her hand. The motion was rough, angry.

to the back garden. The cool morning air of Long Island, tinged with the salty scent of t

ngeas, their cheerful color a stark contr

now, what

mless replacement. She would sleep in Aria's bed, wear her life like a

nails digging into her palms. The sharp sting of pain was a welc

appen. She would not be driv

ad to

n facts and figures, not feelings. Her frantic accusations, her tears, her pleas-to

ed proof, she wo

the shadows. She would wait, she would watch, and she would gathe

dream now looked like a gilded cage, a beautiful prison. But it was her prison, and she

lled it out. It was a text from a number she didn't reco

l, Terminal 4 arrivals, at 2:00 PM to welcome Ms. Fi

't just forcing her to accept Cassie; he was forcing her to perform the role of the gracious

ched Aria's lips. She typed

firm

to her pocket and marched ba

t, comfortable cardigan-a symbol of the soft, comfortable woman she

selected a sharply tailored navy trench coat, a piece of clothing that felt les

ler erased the dark circles and redness around her eyes. She blen

t with a steady hand, the slash of color a declaration of war. The woman staring back

substantial in her hand, Aria walked out of the master suite. H

. She walked past Bentley's sleek Aston Martin and her own convertible, heading straight

side. The engine roared to life with a low, satisfying growl, a sound

t of the garage, gravel crunching under its tires, and

er enemy. And she was goin