The third photo shows both boys together. Perfect mirrors of each other.
Twins. Dark hair. Green eyes. Features that are unmistakably mine.
I set the photos down and press my palms flat against the desk.
Then I remember.
A year ago. Ireland. Ballycotton. I was visiting my mother and went for a walk through the village. Two small boys were playing near the harbor. Four years old. Dark hair, bright eyes, laughing as they kicked a ball back and forth.
I stopped their ball when it rolled toward me. Talked to them for a few minutes. They told me their names.
Finn and Liam.
F & L.
The locket.
I pick up the photos again and study every detail.
These are my sons.
22
AURELIA
The locket is gone.
I’ve torn apart my bedroom looking for it. Checked under the bed, inside every drawer, went through my closet twice. Searched the car three times, looked under the seats, in the glove compartment, everywhere.
Nothing.
I retrace my steps in my head. I had it when I left for Cassian’s apartment six days ago. I wore it under my shirt like I always do. The chain is delicate, and could have broken without me noticing.
The last place I remember having it was his apartment. My purse tipped over while I was getting dressed. I’m sure of it now. The locket could have fallen out or rolled under the bed or something.
But when I went back to search, he said he hadn’t seen anything. Even asked his housekeeper in front of me. Maria said no, she would have set it aside if she’d found it.
Still.
Something felt off that night. The way he watched me search. Too casual, too helpful. Like he was playing a part.
I’m being paranoid. He has no reason to keep it. Probably didn’t even notice a small necklace on his floor. But the suspicion sits in my chest anyway, quiet and persistent.
I’m in Julian’s study, going over the quarterly financials, when my phone rings. Cassian’s name lights up the screen.
I glance at Julian, who’s reviewing contracts on the other side of his desk. He doesn’t look up.
I answer. “Hello?”
“We need to meet.” Cassian’s voice is cold. Controlled. Nothing like the warmth I’ve heard from him for weeks. “Now.”
My stomach drops. “What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong.”
“Cassian—”
“I’m texting you an address. Be there in an hour.”
