I sip champagne that tastes of nothing and watch Benjamin work the room. He moves from group to group with practiced ease, a hand on an elbow here, a confidential lean-in there. Everyone responds to his presence—backs straightening, smiles widening, eyes lighting with the special glow reserved for those who believe themselves in the presence of greatness.

  “Has he remarried already? The man doesn’t waste time.”

  The voice catches my attention—elderly, female, pitched low but carrying in that way particular to women who’ve spent decades delivering devastating remarks at garden parties. I turn slightly, spotting the two women that Benjamin mentioned were on the hospital board, seated at a corner table partially concealed by a large floral arrangement. Both wear the uniform of Harbor Heights’ oldest residents—pastel St. John knits, pearls, perfectly coiffed silver hair. I recognize them vaguely from previous events, longtime pillars of Tampa society.

  “Though I suppose you’d be desperate for a bit of romance after Alice.” The taller woman nods in my direction without looking at me directly. “I heard she was quite cold.”

  “What do you mean?” The other lady asks.

  My breath catches. I step closer to the enormous arrangement of white roses and hydrangeas, positioning myself just out of their line of sight.

  “She was always turning her nose up at poor Benjamin. She came from money, you see, much more money than he has. Old Boston family.” The woman shakes her head, ice tinkling in her whiskey glass. “I always thought she faked her death to run off to the Bahamas.”

  The shorter woman leans forward, pearls swinging, and the two laugh. “I don’t think she’d be happy to see Benjamin moving on so fast. I think their parents just wanted to see them married. She always thought she was better than him.” She lets the sentence hang, arched eyebrows completing the thought.

  My champagne flute freezes halfway to my lips. The women have moved on to discussing someone’s daughter’s divorce. I stare across the ballroom at Benjamin, now deep in conversation with the hospital board president. His hand gestures precisely as he speaks, surgeon’s fingers sketching his vision in the air. He and Lily have always spoken so highly of Alice.

  What if Alice isn’t even dead? Is she alive somewhere living off that money? While writing letters to me? Is she still trying to play with Benjamin even now?

  The thought strikes without warning, electric and terrifying. What if the crash was staged? What if the body was misidentified? What if Alice is doing all of this to break me and Benjamin up?

  No. That’s impossible. There was a funeral. A body.

  I push away from the table, needing air, space to think. The champagne I’ve consumed on an empty stomach swirls unpleasantly. Faces blur as I move through the crowd, nodding mechanically at greetings, maintaining Stone family perfection while my mind races in frantic circles.

  Rachel’s folder. Would it contain financial information? Bank records? Could it lead a trail to where Alice is?

  Across the room, Benjamin looks up, his eyes finding mine with unerring precision. His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his gaze sharpens, assessing my location, my posture, my isolation. He excuses himself from his group, beginning to move in my direction through the crowd.

  I straighten my spine, force my breathing to steady. My face arranges itself into the pleasant mask I’ve perfected as Mrs. Benjamin Stone. Inside, my heart hammers against my ribs, my thoughts spinning with new suspicions, new fears. Money, control, death—the pieces rearranging themselves into an even darker picture than I’d imagined. Benjamin has never mentioned any of this to me.

  Stop it. This is insane.

  Benjamin approaches, his smile warm. “There you are,” he says, taking my elbow. “Come meet the new hospital board members. They’re dying to talk to you.”

  I allow myself to be guided across the ballroom, feeling the pressure of his fingers through the thin fabric of my gown. The elderly women watch us pass, their eyes sharp with decades of observing the rise and fall of Harbor Heights’ families. They see more than most, these guardians of social history.

  I wonder what else they know about Alice Stone.

  Once Benjamin is busy with mingling again, I retreat to the silent auction display, seeking refuge among the carefully arranged items on white-clothed tables. Crystal paperweights, weekend getaways to private islands, a tennis lesson with a former Wimbledon champion—all donated by Harbor Heights’ elite, price tags starting where most people’s monthly salaries end. My fingers hover over the bid sheet for a Hermès scarf, not because I want it, but because focusing on something—anything—might steady the tremor in my hands after what I’ve just overheard about Alice. I don’t notice Margaret’s approach until her rich perfume envelops me like an expensive fog, her presence materializing at my shoulder.

  “Emma, darling.” Her voice carries that particular musical quality reserved for public performances. “That scarf would be lovely with your coloring.”

  She reaches past me, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light as she picks up the pen to sign her own name on the bid sheet, adding a figure that makes my eyes widen slightly. A power move disguised as generosity.

  “Margaret.” I turn, summoning a smile that feels like stretching plastic wrap across my face. “The gala seems to be a success.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.” Her own smile remains fixed, a perfect arrangement of lips and teeth. Today she wears dove-gray silk that whispers money with every movement, pearls gleaming at her throat and ears. Her hair catches the light in a way that suggests weekly appointments with Tampa’s most exclusive colorist.

  She guides me further along the auction tables, her hand resting lightly on my forearm. To anyone watching, we’re mother-in-law and daughter-in-law admiring the generosity of Harbor Heights’ finest. Only I feel the slight pressure of her fingers, the subtle steering that brooks no resistance.

  “This TikTok scandal is beyond damaging to our family name,” she says, her voice dropping to a register only I can hear. The pleasant smile never wavers. “I’m worried. Benjamin is suffering. Three families have requested different surgeons this week alone. Robert is fielding calls from concerned clients questioning whether they want to remain with an agency associated with such… unpleasantness.” We pause before a display featuring a week at someone’s villa in Tuscany. The starting bid would cover my rent for six months back when I had my own apartment, my own life, my own reality. Margaret’s smile tightens imperceptibly. Her manicured nails press into my arm, five perfect points of pain through the silk of my gown. “Benjamin mentioned that your sister is feeding information to this TikTok person.”

  My breath catches. “I haven’t spoken to Rachel in⁠—”

  “We know you met with her.” Margaret’s interruption is smooth, practiced. “And I’m worried about you.”

  Across the ballroom, Benjamin holds court among a circle of adoring hospital donors. His head is thrown back in laughter at something an elderly woman in diamonds has said. His hand rests lightly on her shoulder—the perfect gentleman, attentive and charming.

  “You need to get this under control,” Margaret continues, her voice like silk over steel. “The videos. Your sister. Your own… erratic behavior.”

  I turn slightly, meeting her gaze directly. “My behavior?”

  “Benjamin tells us you’ve been unstable. Imagining people following you. Attacking our granddaughter.” Her eyes, so like Benjamin’s in shape if not in warmth, study my face with clinical detachment. The gold pendant at her throat catches the light as she leans forward. “It’s concerning, Emma. To all of us who care about you.”

  I twist my wedding ring, feeling the diamond dig into my neighboring finger. The accusation hangs between us. I need to know more. “Margaret, before all this happened… did Alice ever confide in you? About Benjamin? About their marriage?”

  Margaret’s perfectly lined lips tighten. “Alice was… cold. Even before the accident, there was something distant about her. Benjamin would bring her flowers, and she’d put them in water without a word. No smile, no thank you.” She sighs.

  “Do you think—” I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “Is it possible she’s still alive?”

  Margaret’s laugh is like breaking glass. “Good heavens, no. But wouldn’t that be just like Alice? To orchestrate something so cruel? To make us all suffer just to prove a point?” She reaches across and pats my hand. “The crash was devastating, dear. No one walked away from that.”

  “I guess it is kind of a crazy thought,” I say.

  Margaret’s smile widens, revealing professionally whitened teeth. “Now, let’s rejoin the party. Benjamin must be looking for you.” She gestures across the room, where indeed, Benjamin is scanning the crowd, his expression pleasant but his eyes sharp and searching.

  Margaret glides away, leaving me standing alone by a framed painting of Harbor Heights in its early days. I need air. Space. A moment to myself. But no sooner has Margaret disappeared into the crowd than Lily materializes at my side.

  “You look like you could use this.” Lily offers a flute of champagne, her smile sweet and seemingly innocent. The crystal catches the light as she extends it toward me, the bubbles rising in perfect formation. Her dress—designer, certainly expensive—transforms her from sullen teenager to sophisticated young woman. The couture bodice hugs her slender frame, the color bringing out blue undertones in her dark hair, which has been swept into an elegant updo that adds years to her appearance.

  I accept the champagne, noting the perfectly applied makeup that makes her look startlingly like her mother. No seventeen-year-old achieves that level of cosmetic perfection without help. A makeup artist, perhaps? Margaret’s hand, I suspect.

  “I saw you talking with Grandma.” Lily’s voice carries just the right note of casual interest. “She worries about you, you know. We all do.”

  Before I can respond, she leans closer, her perfume—subtle, expensive, definitely not a teenager’s choice—enveloping me as she whispers, “You pronounced Dr. Whitaker’s name wrong earlier. Dad noticed.”

  My stomach drops. Dr. Whitaker—the new neurosurgeon Benjamin introduced me to during our initial circuit of the room. I’d called him Whittaker, an easy mistake.

  “I’m sure he understood,” I say, trying to maintain composure. “Simple mistake.”

  “Dad says details matter.” Lily straightens a nonexistent wrinkle in her dress. “Especially with important people like Dr. Whitaker. His department could direct a lot of funding to the pediatric wing.”

  Her words land like a judgment, another small stone added to the barrier she’s constructing between us. Before I can defend myself, Lily’s face transforms—her gaze shifts past me, her shoulders pull back, and her lips curve into a genuine smile I’ve never seen directed at me. I turn to see Benjamin walking toward us, flanked by two colleagues in suits who must be hospital board members.

  “What do you think of this piece?” Lily asks, smoothly changing subjects as she gestures toward a modern painting on display among the auction items. “Emma was just saying she finds it fascinating.”

  I wasn’t. I hadn’t even noticed the artwork until this moment—an abstract canvas of harsh red lines intersecting with black circles that means nothing to me. But now Benjamin stands beside us, his cologne mingling with Lily’s perfume, creating a sensory barrier between me and the rest of the room.

  “Was she?” Benjamin’s hand settles at the small of my back. “Tell us what you find so compelling about it, Emma.”

  The trap springs shut. I stare at the canvas, mind racing. Art has never been my area of expertise. This was Alice’s domain. Benjamin knows this—has gently teased me about my preference for advertising copy over gallery openings. Now I’m expected to expound on a painting I’ve barely glanced at, with both of them watching for any misstep.

  “I-I appreciate the contrast,” I begin, voice less steady than I’d like. “The way the red lines cut across the black circles. It’s… dynamic.”

  “Dynamic,” Lily repeats, the word stretched slightly, questioning. “And the artist’s commentary on post-industrial alienation? Do you find that compelling as well?”

  There is no such commentary. I’m certain of it. She’s testing me, setting me up to fail in this small, public way.

  “I hadn’t considered that aspect,” I admit, heat rising to my cheeks.

  Lily’s eyes gleam with subtle triumph. “Professor Harrington at school says modern art is all about social context. Don’t you think that’s true, Dad?”

  “Absolutely.” Benjamin smiles down at his daughter with genuine warmth. “Lily has quite an eye for art. Gets it from her mother.”

  The reference to Alice lands exactly as intended. I take a sip of champagne to hide my expression, the liquid tasteless on my tongue.

  “Perhaps we should stick to what we know,” Benjamin suggests, his smile never faltering. “Emma’s talents lie elsewhere. Creative direction for advertising campaigns, not art criticism.”

  The gentle diminishment sounds like praise to anyone overhearing our conversation. To me, it’s another cut. Lily nods in perfect agreement, her expression a masterpiece of daughterly admiration directed at her father and carefully masked disdain for me.

  I glance around the ballroom, suddenly hyperaware of my complete isolation. The elderly women who gossiped about Alice now chat with Robert near the bar. Margaret works the room, stopping to speak with key important Harbor Heights socialites who then glance in our direction. The wait staff circulate invisibly, eyes downcast but ears open. Even the other guests—hospital board members, wealthy donors, Tampa society fixtures—seem part of an elaborate surveillance network, watching the drama of the Stone family unfold while pretending not to notice.

  I’m trapped in Lily’s sophisticated campaign to undermine me at every turn. All while questions about Alice’s death multiply with each passing hour.

  I don’t know what to do.

  The orchestra strikes up a waltz, the opening notes of Strauss floating across the ballroom. Couples begin moving toward the dance floor, a choreographed migration of wealth and privilege.

  “Shall we?” Benjamin’s hand presses more firmly against my back. His public face shows nothing but adoration for his wife. Only I feel the tension in his fingers, the subtle guidance that allows no resistance.

  “Of course,” I respond, the perfect doctor’s wife accepting her husband’s invitation to dance.

  As Benjamin leads me toward the dance floor, I glance back at Lily. She stands alone now, a younger reflection of Alice’s portrait, watching us with a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Our eyes meet across the thinning crowd, and in that moment, I see something unexpected in her gaze—not triumph, not hatred, but something more complex.

  Then Benjamin’s hand tightens at my waist, turning me to face him as the waltz begins, and Lily disappears from view. The music swells around us as we begin to move in perfect time, the Harbor Heights’ elite smiling approvingly at the handsome doctor and his lovely wife.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I slip into Stone Advertising through the service entrance, avoiding the main lobby where questions might follow me. My heels make no sound on the industrial carpet of the back hallways as I make my way to the IT floor, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Marcus will be there. Marcus who owes me a favor. Marcus who can access records no one else can.

  I find him hunched over his computer, the blue light reflecting off his glasses like miniature moons. He doesn’t look up when I enter, fingers never pausing their relentless dance across his keyboard.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, still not looking at me. “Pretty sure Robert’s in a closed-door with Legal right now.”

  “I’m not here for Robert.” I close his office door softly. The click of the latch sounds final, like a commitment I can’t take back. “I need your help.”

  Now he looks up, his fingers stilling mid-keystroke. “Again? I think we’re even after I helped you last time.” His eyes narrow behind his glasses.

  “This is important.” I move closer to his desk, lowering my voice though we’re alone. “It’s personal. And confidential.”

  Marcus leans back, chair squeaking in protest. “That’s what you said last time. Those are the words people say right before asking me to do something that could get me fired.”

  He’s right, of course. What I’m about to ask crosses every professional boundary. But I’m beyond caring about boundaries now. The letters have shattered all normal considerations.

  “I need to look at financial records for Alice.”

  Marcus’s expression shifts from irritation to disbelief.

  “Your husband’s dead wife? Are you serious?” He shakes his head. “Even if I could access them—which I’m not saying I can—why would you want to? We just found her phone and now you want me to do that? Isn’t there enough heat on your family?”

  My hands tremble slightly. “I’ve been receiving letters. Letters that suggest her death wasn’t an accident or maybe even that she isn’t dead.”

  “Letters from whom?” His voice sharpens with interest despite his obvious reluctance.

  “They’re signed by Alice.”

  The silence stretches between us, thick with implication. Marcus stares at me, assessing whether I’ve lost my mind. I don’t blame him. I’ve asked myself the same question repeatedly.

  “That’s not possible.” His voice drops to a whisper. “She died.”

  “I know what the official story is.” I lean closer, keeping my voice low. “But what if it’s not true? What if she’s alive somewhere? I need to know if there were unusual financial movements before or even after her death.”