Rain traced rivulets down Olivia Hawthorne's black veil, gathering on her sister's gravestone. She stared at the freshly carved epitaph—"Her Light Endures"—as her nails dug deep into her palms.
"The police closed the case," her mother's voice was as soggy and brittle as a rain-soaked newspaper. "They said Eleanor committed suicide."
Olivia jerked her head up, raindrops slipping from her lashes. "The rooftop door was locked. No one could open it without a key. How could she possibly—"
"Enough!" her father hissed, yanking her drenched sleeve. "The Wirth family has already shown enough grace. Don't let the media dig up another scandal."
After the funeral, Olivia stayed behind alone in the cemetery. She pulled out her phone and replayed the last voice message Eleanor had sent her:
"Liv... I found something... They're even worse than I thought..."
The recording ended in a harsh burst of static.
"Miss Hawthorne."
A deep voice startled her from behind. A black umbrella shielded her from the rain, its steel ribs gleaming coldly.
Turning, she nearly collided with his chest. Edmund Wirth was taller than she remembered. Even in the rain, the pin on his tailored suit gleamed sharply.
"My condolences." He offered her a handkerchief. Cashmere. Scented faintly of cedar.
Olivia didn't take it. "My sister would never wear heels to the rooftop."
Edmund's thumb brushed the carved handle of the umbrella. "The police report says she was barefoot when she fell."
The detail hit Olivia like a punch to the gut. The family hadn't even received the report—yet he knew.
"Tomorrow, 10 a.m." He leaned in, his breath grazing her earlobe. "Top floor of the Emerald Tower."
Olivia stepped back. "Why should I?"
"Because of the contingency clause your parents signed." He dabbed a raindrop from her cheek with the handkerchief. "Or would you prefer to watch Hawthorne Pictures become a subsidiary of the Wirth Group?"
---
The next day, the mirrored elevator reflected Olivia's pale face as she ascended the Emerald Tower. Her mind looped Eleanor's broken voice message, again and again, until the elevator chimed and stopped at the top floor.
An assistant led her into a conference room.
Inside were only Edmund and a woman in gold-rimmed glasses. Two documents lay on the table beside a velvet box.
"This is a prenuptial agreement," the woman said, sliding the papers toward her. "Once signed, you'll receive 51% controlling shares in Hawthorne Pictures."
Olivia's eyes locked on the date at the bottom of the document—the same day Eleanor died. Her throat tightened. "You planned this all along?"
Edmund opened the velvet box.
Inside, on a bed of black satin, rested a silicone mask—identical to Eleanor, even the teardrop-shaped mole beneath her eye.
"Put it on." His fingers tapped the edge of the box. "Next month, you'll attend our wedding... as Eleanor Wirth."
Olivia grabbed the mask and hurled it at the wall. "You're insane."
It bounced onto the carpet. When Edmund bent to pick it up, his cufflinks flashed—a limited edition endorsed by Eleanor herself.
"She met with Veronica Montero before she died," he said quietly. "The newcomer who just won the Golden Lion."
Olivia's breath caught. Veronica had been Eleanor's last call.
"Sign it," Edmund said, pressing a pen into her trembling hand. "I'll help you uncover the truth. And you'll keep the Hawthorne name alive."
As the pen pierced the paper, Olivia glimpsed the woman with the gold glasses quietly tapping her phone—recording everything.