father had already announced that the Hartwell family would be supporting a new preservation initiative in Serena’s name, and the room hummed with admiration.
I had not known anything about a preservation initiative.
Then again, I had not known much about Serena’s life lately. She called only when she needed a favor, a reference, a borrowed bag, a smiling family face in photos.
I reached the terrace, but before I could step outside, someone touched my sleeve.
Not hard. Not like Aunt Celia. Just a light tap against the ugly yellow satin.
I turned.
Eleanor Hartwell stood beside me.
Up close, her eyes were pale green and unsettlingly clear.
“She stole your name, didn’t she?” she asked.
Six words. Quiet words.
They entered me like cold water.
My hand tightened around the door handle.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, because my family had trained me well.
Eleanor’s gaze did not move. “Yes, you do.”
Before I could answer, Aunt Celia appeared from nowhere.
“Mara needs some air,” she said brightly, grabbing my elbow.
Her nails pressed through the satin.
“Celia,” Eleanor said.
My aunt’s smile twitched. “Mrs. Hartwell, I’m so sorry. Mara gets overwhelmed.”
“Does she?”
“Sometimes she misunderstands things. Family things.”
I watched Eleanor’s eyes sharpen.
Aunt Celia pulled me into a narrow service hallway behind the ballroom before either of us could speak again. The door swung closed, muffling the music. We were suddenly surrounded by stainless-steel carts, silver cake domes, stacked plates, and the sweet chemical smell of lemon polish.
My aunt released my arm only to point one finger at my face.
“Listen to me carefully.”
“What did she mean?”
“Do not make a scene.”
“What did Serena tell them?”
Aunt Celia’s jaw worked. For a moment she looked almost tired. Then the old hardness returned.
“The Hartwell family believes Serena is the architect who restored the Ashbury Library.”
The words made no sense at first. They came apart in my head like loose beads.
“No.”
“They think she won the grant,” my aunt continued, voice low and fast. “They think she led the design, gave the interviews, saved that building from demolition. It impressed them. It gave her a story they respected.”
“That was my project.”
“You had other projects.”
I laughed once. It sounded terrible.
“I had one project that changed my life. One. And she took it?”
“She did not take it. She shaped the truth.”
“The truth has my signature on it.”
Aunt Celia stepped closer. “The truth is that Serena is marrying into a family where reputation matters. She needed to seem accomplished in a way they understand. You know how people look at her. Pretty, charming, social. They never see depth.”
“So she borrowed mine.”
“Do not be cruel.”
I stared at her.
“I’m cruel?”
A tray clattered somewhere behind the kitchen door. My aunt flinched, then lowered her voice.
“She told them you helped a little before your breakdown.”
My skin went cold.
“My what?”
“Your breakdown. Your instability. Your habit of exaggerating your achievements when you feel insecure. It was necessary, Mara. They needed an explanation for why you two barely speak and why we could not risk you being seated near donors.”
I could barely breathe.
Suddenly the slow voices at dinner made sense.
