The silver silk caught the faint light from the garden, shimmering like water.

It looked beautiful, but to me, it looked like a betrayal.

“She wore it,” I whispered, touching the cool, smooth hem.

“Sloane wore it to the gala,” Matteo said, his voice bitter in the quiet room.

“But she does not know what is inside.”

He pulled a small pair of silver shears from his coat pocket.

My hands shook as I held the heavy silk skirt steady for him.

“Where is the seam?” I asked.

“The inner bodice, near the ribbing,” he muttered.

He worked quickly, his fingers moving with practiced, professional precision.

The sound of silk threads snapping was loud in the quiet room.

He reached his hand deep into the structural lining of the corset.

“There is something here,” he said, his eyes widening.

He pulled out a thick, sealed envelope made of heavy parchment.

It was stamped with my mother’s personal wax seal—a crest of wild roses.

“My mother’s writing,” I said, my voice catching in my throat.

My name was written on the front in her elegant, looping script.