Ella looked at her.
“I’m trying not to get addicted to the crime scene.”
The woman blinked.
Leon almost choked on his drink.
That evening, they followed Graham to an exclusive private club called The Society.
The place hid behind an unmarked black door and smelled of cigar smoke, leather, old money, and secrets. Ella entered on Leon’s arm wearing a dark green dress borrowed from the Vale collection and shoes sharp enough to double as evidence.
“Husband and wife,” Leon murmured.
“No fighting?” she asked.
“No promises.”
Graham sat at a corner table with Victor Reed.
Between them lay a folder.
Ella positioned herself near the bar mirror. She could see the reflection of the papers.
“Legal transfer forms,” she whispered.
Leon’s jaw tightened. “Can you read the account?”
“Not from here.”
Then Graham looked up.
His eyes landed on Ella.
Recognition flashed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“He knows me,” she whispered.
Leon’s hand tightened at her back.
“We leave now.”
Outside, a call came through on Ella’s phone.
Blocked number.
She answered.
A distorted voice said, “Check your wife’s bouquet.”
“My what?”
“The wedding bouquet.”
The line went dead.
Leon’s security retrieved the preserved bouquet from the bridal suite. Hidden inside the handle, beneath white ribbon and floral tape, was a tiny recorder.
Ella’s hands trembled as she pressed play.
Sophia’s voice returned.
“I found account 47B. Funds moved through my name forty-eight hours before the wedding. I thought it was leverage. Then I realized it was a graveyard. If I disappear, someone inside both families signed off. Graham is steering it. My father knew. Leon’s family knew. Ella, I’m sorry. I gave you the first envelope before rehearsal. If you never got it, they already chose you as the fall girl.”
The recording ended with Sophia breathing hard, then whispering:
“Don’t trust the pretty version of anything.”
Ella sat down slowly.
“The envelope,” she whispered. “I never saw it.”
Leon stood near the fireplace, face carved from stone.
“If this is real,” he said, “my family didn’t hide a scandal. They built one.”
Ella looked at him.
“Then Sophia didn’t run from the wedding.”
“No.”
“She ran for her life.”
A knock came at the servants’ entrance after midnight.
One of Leon’s guards entered the study.
“There’s a woman outside. Injured. She asked for Ella.”
Ella was already moving.
Leon caught her arm.
“Wait.”
She glared at him. “If it’s Sophia—”
“It could be a trap.”
“And if it isn’t?”
He released her.
They found Sophia near the side entrance, half-collapsed against the stone wall, soaked from rain, one sleeve dark with blood. Her perfect blonde hair was matted to her cheek. She looked nothing like the society bride from photographs.
She looked hunted.
Ella dropped to her knees.
“Soph.”
Sophia grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t call anyone,” she rasped. “If they know I’m here, I’m dead.”
Leon crouched beside them. “Doctors.”
“No police. No doctors. No family.”
Ella’s voice shook. “You disappear for days, show up bleeding at my house, and you’re making rules?”
Sophia laughed weakly.
“Your house. Cute.”
Inside, Ella cleaned the wound herself while Leon guarded the door.
Sophia winced as disinfectant hit the cut.
“Ow.”
“You vanished, fake-married me into your wedding, maybe got shot, and I’m the one doing first aid,” Ella snapped. “I need worse friends.”
“I didn’t fake you into anything.”
“No? Then why was my dress size already in the backup fitting file?”
Sophia looked away.
Ella stopped.
“So that’s what you were hiding.”
Sophia’s eyes filled.
“I didn’t come back for forgiveness.”
“Good. You won’t get it.”
Leon crossed his arms. “Did you run because you were scared or because you were guilty?”
Sophia looked at him with exhausted fury.
“I ran because I saw the books. I stayed gone because they tried to bury me with them.”
“Names,” Leon said.
“Graham. My father. Maybe more.”
“Proof?”
“I gave it to Ella.”
Ella shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”