And there was the groom.
Liam.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs, a painful, physical blow. He stood at the altar, hands clasped behind his back. He looked devastatingly handsome, but thin. Drawn. His jaw was set so tight a muscle ticked beneath the skin. He wasn’t smiling. He looked like a man facing a firing squad, or perhaps, the man pulling the trigger.
As if feeling the weight of her gaze, Liam looked up. His eyes, usually a warm hazel, were dark, unreadable pools. He locked eyes with her across the sea of designer hats and expensive suits. He didn’t smile. He didn’t gasp. He simply gave a microscopic nod—a tilt of the chin so slight that anyone else would have missed it.
I see you, it said. Hold the line.
Then, the music swelled. The bridal march.
The guests rose, blocking Clara’s view of Liam. She slipped into the very last pew, isolated in the shadows.
Vanessa appeared at the archway.
She was a vision of manufactured perfection. Her dress was a custom Vera Wang, a cloud of lace and tulle that cost more than most people earned in a decade. Her blonde hair was swept up in an intricate chignon, crowned with a diamond tiara that had belonged to their grandmother. She was radiant, smiling that camera-ready smile that had graced the covers of society magazines for years.
But Clara knew her sister. She knew the tell-tale signs of the predator beneath the skin. Vanessa’s knuckles were white as she gripped her bouquet of white roses. Her eyes weren’t soft with love; they were darting, manic, scanning the altar, the guests, the exits. She looked possessive. She looked like a child gripping a stolen toy, terrified the owner was coming back to claim it.
As Vanessa passed the back row, her gaze snagged on the figure in black.
Vanessa faltered. Her foot caught in the hem of her dress, and she stumbled. A collective gasp went through the room. Vanessa righted herself instantly, but the mask had slipped. For a fraction of a second, pure, unadulterated terror contorted her face.
She whispered something frantically to her father, who was walking her down the aisle. Clara read the lips perfectly.
You said she was gone.
Marcus Sterling turned his head. He saw Clara. His expression didn’t register fear, but a cold, eruptive fury. He squeezed Vanessa’s arm, pulling her forward, forcing the pageant to continue.w
Clara sat back, crossing her legs. The scars on her arms were hidden by her long sleeves, but the scars on her soul were bared for the first time in half a decade. She wasn’t the ghost they wanted her to be. She was the haunting.
