Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper who had served my late father long before she ever served me, had utilized a rusted brass service key to slip through my bedroom door while the guards rotated positions downstairs. She was seventy-two years old, barely five feet tall, and currently trembling with the specific, terrifying wrath that makes deeply loyal people infinitely more dangerous than hired muscle.
I turned slowly toward my expansive dressing room. The mahogany door stood ajar. The champagne silk gown I had meticulously tailored for the Vance Foundation Gala was missing. So were the flawless diamond drop earrings my grandmother wore to her golden anniversary, the heavy gold Cartier bracelet my father gifted me when I assumed my seat on the corporate board, my platinum wedding band, and the embossed invitation printed with my full legal identity: Eleanor Vance Sterling.
