VANESSA
The Silverclaw limousine glided silently through the night as I peeled off my silver mask and ran my fingers through my hair, loosening the elegant updo that had begun to give me a headache. My body felt heavy, weighed down by the lies I'd told at the Masquerade Ball.
I stared at my reflection in the tinted window, barely recognizing myself anymore.
Tonight, I had let Roman Vance believe that Fabian wasn't his son. I'd stood there in that candlelit conservatory and denied what was written in every feature of our child's face. The silver streak in Fabian's hair—identical to Roman's—practically screamed the truth.
And I'd lied anyway.
"We'll be arriving at the Moonstone estate in five minutes, Miss West," the driver announced, his voice crackling through the intercom.
"Thank you, Charles."
