Arthur looked past him.
At the far end of the ballroom, the doors opened again.
Clarissa entered.
Not in the worn navy dress.
She wore a midnight-black gown that shimmered softly under the chandeliers, elegant and simple, with no desperate glitter, no borrowed importance. Her dark hair was swept back, her face pale but composed. Beside her walked Mrs. Martha, holding her old dress carefully folded over one arm.
Every eye turned. Every whisper stopped.
Chloe stared as though she were seeing a ghost rise from the floor.
Julian went utterly still.
“Clarissa?” he whispered.
Arthur moved toward her, and the entire room watched as one of the most powerful men in the country placed a hand gently against her cheek.
“My daughter,” he said.
A violent hush struck the ballroom.
Someone dropped a glass.
Chloe’s lips parted. “No. No, that’s not possible.”
Clarissa’s eyes moved to her, quiet and unreadable. “Why not, Chloe?”
