I didn’t hear it at first. Not clearly. The music still played. Soft piano. Violins curling into the corners of the ballroom like smoke.
But then?—
A silence.
Small.
Targeted.
The kind that follows recognition.
Someone gasped. Not loud. Not dramatic. But sharp. A glass clinked too hard onto a tray. A laugh stalled mid-syllable. I didn’t lift my head. Didn’t need to. The pressure in the room shifted.
Again.
But this time?—
It was different.
Thinner.
Hotter.
Closer.
The whispers found a new rhythm.
A new name.
My name.
“That’s her.”
“The one kneeling.”
“No. Look. Look at this?—”
Footsteps whispered past me. I caught a flash of white fabric. A phone. Screen tilted just enough for me to see. A message thread.
No caption.
No context.
Just a photo.
Of me.
Not tonight. Not now. Older. Weeks ago. Maybe longer.
There was a man behind me. Shadowed. Unrecognizable. But close. Too close. His hand on my waist. My body leaning into him like I belonged there. Or like I didn’t have anywhere else to go.
A second image loaded. Me again. Alone this time. Wrapped in a coat too big for me. Wolfe’s.
But the caption?—
“Legacy isn’t the only thing the Lawlors pass around.”
They didn’t see me. They saw her ghost wearing my bones. And maybe I deserved that. Heat tore through my chest. Like breath catching fire. Not rage. Not grief. Shame. Raw and alive and crackling down my spine like static.
