It was full of photos that could sear your eyes out of your skull.
The woman in the pictures wore oversized sunglasses and a bikini, draped over two blond men built like Greek statues.
Half her face was hidden, but I recognized her instantly by the signature red mole on her chin.
This was no Vivian.
This was Isabel Henson. The woman who had supposedly burned to ash in that fire.
I stared at the photos on my screen, and a cold smile curved my lips.
The sainted ghost. The untouchable first love, consumed by flames.
She and Antonia had orchestrated the perfect con, a masterwork of fake tragedy.
All for Maxwell's fortune. And they'd wanted my life thrown in as a bonus.
"Isabel, you've been having the time of your life overseas, haven't you."
"Since you're not dead after all, let me put together a proper welcome-home gift."
The next morning, I finished washing up and applied a full face of flawless makeup.
The moment I came downstairs, I saw Maxwell sitting at the table, spooning bird's nest soup toward Antonia's lips, coaxing her to drink.
When he noticed me, his gaze cooled several degrees.
"Have you come to your senses? If so, go to the hospital and get the pre-op screening done."