Aria's POV
The coffee pot slips from my hand and shatters across the diner floor.
"Damn it!" I drop to my knees, ignoring the hot coffee soaking through my uniform as I scramble to pick up the broken pieces. This is the third thing I've broken this week, and Mr. Morelli already warned me—one more mistake and I'm fired.
I can't lose this job. Not when I'm three months behind on rent. Not when Elena's medical bills are still piling up even though she's been dead for twelve weeks.
"It's okay, sweetheart. Accidents happen." Mrs. Chen, my favorite regular customer, pats my shoulder as I clean up the mess with shaking hands.
But it's not okay. Nothing has been okay since Elena died.
I dump the broken glass in the trash and glance at the clock. Eleven forty-five PM. Fifteen more minutes and I can go home to my tiny apartment, crawl into bed, and pretend I don't exist for a few hours.
The bell above the door chimes.
I don't look up. "Kitchen's closed. Coffee only."
"I'm not here for coffee."
The voice makes me freeze. It's smooth and expensive-sounding, like the lawyers on TV shows. I turn around and my stomach drops.
The man standing in the doorway doesn't belong in Morelli's Diner. His suit probably costs more than I make in six months. His shoes are so shiny I can see my reflection in them. Even his briefcase looks like it costs a fortune.
Rich people don't come to this part of town. Not at midnight. Not ever.
"We're closing soon," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You should try the Starbucks on Fifth Avenue."
He walks toward me anyway, his footsteps too loud in the empty diner. Mrs. Chen suddenly remembers she needs to leave and practically runs out the door. I don't blame her.
I'm alone with this stranger.
"Are you Aria Cross?" he asks.
My heart stops. Nobody knows my full name. I go by just "Aria" at work. The name "Cross" belongs to Elena, the foster mother who took me in when I was five and kept me until I aged out of the system at eighteen. The only person who ever really loved me.
"Who's asking?" I grip the coffee pot I just refilled, ready to use it as a weapon if I need to.
The man sits down at the counter like he owns the place. He sets his briefcase on the stool next to him and looks at me with dark eyes that seem to see right through me.
"My name is Robert Pierce. I'm an attorney with Vandermere Family Law. I've been searching for you for quite some time, Miss Cross."
"I don't know what you're talking about." I take a step back. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"No one said you did." He pulls a folder from his briefcase. "I'm here because I have information about your family."
I almost laugh. "I don't have a family. My mom dumped me at a hospital when I was a baby. I grew up in foster care. There's nothing to tell."
"That's where you're wrong." Mr. Pierce opens the folder and slides a photograph across the counter. "Do you recognize this woman?"
I look at the picture and my breath catches. The woman is beautiful—blonde hair, blue eyes, wearing a fancy dress and diamonds. She's standing in front of a mansion that looks like something from a movie.
But that's not what makes my hands start shaking.
She has my face. Not exactly, but close enough that we could be related. Same nose. Same chin. Same way of smiling with just one corner of her mouth.
"Who is she?" My voice comes out as a whisper.
"Her name is Vivienne Vandermere. Twenty-three years ago, her six-month-old daughter was stolen from her home. That daughter's name was Anastasia Vandermere." He pauses, watching my reaction. "The police never found the baby. The case went cold. But Mrs. Vandermere never stopped looking for her missing child."
"What does this have to do with me?"
Mr. Pierce pulls out another paper. "Three months ago, we received an anonymous tip. Someone sent us hospital records from the night you were abandoned. We ran a DNA test using a sample from your medical files." He pushes the paper toward me. "The results came back yesterday. You're a ninety-nine point nine percent match to Vivienne Vandermere."
The words don't make sense. I read the paper three times, but my brain can't understand what it's saying.
"You're telling me I'm her daughter? The stolen baby?"
"Yes."
"That's impossible. I was abandoned at a hospital, not stolen from a rich family."
"The person who abandoned you was likely the kidnapper. They probably got scared and left you somewhere you'd be found." Mr. Pierce's expression softens. "I know this is overwhelming, Miss Cross. But the Vandermere family wants to meet you. They want you to come home."
Home. The word feels foreign. I've never had a real home. Just temporary places where I didn't quite belong.
"Why now?" I ask. "If I've been missing for twenty-three years, why find me now?"
"Marcus Vandermere—your father—passed away six months ago. His will contained specific instructions about finding you. The family has been searching more aggressively since his death."
My father is dead. I have a mother I've never met. This is insane.
"I need proof," I say. "Real proof. Not just papers and photos."
"Of course." Mr. Pierce reaches into his briefcase again. "We'd like you to come to our office tomorrow for a formal DNA test. We'll also have Mrs. Vandermere there, if you'd like to meet her." He pulls out a business card and sets it on the counter. "Think about it tonight. Call me in the morning."
He stands up, closes his briefcase, and walks toward the door.
"Wait," I call out. "If I'm really her daughter, why did someone steal me? Who would do that?"
Mr. Pierce's expression goes dark. "That's what we've been trying to figure out for twenty-three years, Miss Cross. Whoever took you went to great lengths to hide you. They might still be out there."
A chill runs down my spine. "Are you saying I'm in danger?"
"I'm saying you should be careful. Don't tell anyone about this conversation. Don't go anywhere alone. And definitely come to the office tomorrow." He opens the door, then looks back at me one more time. "The Vandermere family has resources that can protect you. But only if you let them."
Then he's gone, disappearing into the night like he was never there.
I stand frozen behind the counter, staring at the business card he left behind. My fingers are numb as I pick it up.
VANDERMERE FAMILY ATTORNEYSRobert Pierce, Senior Partner
The name Vandermere sounds familiar. I pull out my phone and type it into Google. My screen fills with results.
Vandermere Empire Worth $5 BillionVivienne Vandermere: New York's Most Powerful WomanThe Vandermere Tragedy: Missing Heiress Never Found
I click on the last article. It's from twenty-three years ago. There's a photo of a young couple holding a baby—a tiny girl with a pink blanket. The headline reads: Six-Month-Old Anastasia Vandermere Kidnapped from Family Estate.
I zoom in on the baby's face.
She has a birthmark on her left shoulder. A small star-shaped mark.
My hand moves to my own left shoulder, where I've had the same birthmark my entire life. Elena used to kiss it and call it my "lucky star."
Oh God.
It's real. This is all real.
I'm not just Aria Cross, the foster kid nobody wanted. I'm Anastasia Vandermere. I'm the missing heiress to a billion-dollar fortune.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
Don't go to that meeting tomorrow. They're lying about everything. Your "mother" knows exactly who took you—and why. If you want the truth, ask them about Elena Cross. Ask them why she had to die.
My blood turns to ice.
I stare at the message, reading it over and over. Elena's death wasn't from cancer. Someone killed her.
And whoever sent this text knows about it.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. I look around the empty diner, suddenly aware of how alone I am. The windows are dark. Anyone could be watching from outside.
Another text comes through:
They're watching you right now. Don't trust anyone from the Vandermere family. Especially not the man they're sending to "protect" you. He's been watching you for years.
I spin around, searching the darkness outside. Are they out there? Is someone really watching me?
The bell above the door chimes.
I scream and grab a knife from behind the counter.
But it's just Mr. Morelli, my boss, coming in through the back entrance. "Aria? What's wrong? Why are you still here?"
I can't answer. I can't breathe.
Because taped to the inside of the front door—the door Mr. Pierce just walked through—is a photograph.
A photograph of me.
Sleeping in my apartment.
Someone has been in my home. Someone has been watching me while I sleep.
And they want me to know it.