"What was that about?" Daniel asked carefully.
"Nothing. Just a confused child." But even as she said it, Victoria was twisting the ring on her finger, feeling the weight of it differently than she had in years.
"You look upset."
"I'm fine, Daniel." The snap in her voice was unusual enough that he took a step back, his eyebrows raising slightly. Victoria never snapped at him; in the five years he'd worked as her assistant, she prided herself on maintaining perfect composure.
"Of course. The car is ready whenever you are."
Victoria nodded, but she couldn't seem to make her feet move. She was staring at the spot where Amara had vanished, replaying the conversation in her mind. How had the girl known about the engraving? It wasn't visible unless you removed the ring and looked closely. Was it possible she'd seen it somehow, stolen a glance when Victoria hadn't been paying attention? But no, that made no sense. Victoria wore the ring constantly, had worn it for nearly eight years since Richard died. She barely took it off, except to sleep.
"Mrs. Hale?" Daniel's voice was gentle now, concerned.
"Let's go," she said, forcing herself to move.
The ride back to her penthouse was silent. Daniel knew better than to press when she was in this mood, so he occupied himself with his phone, sending emails and confirming her schedule for the week. Victoria stared out the window, watching the city blur past, but she wasn't really seeing it.
Truth endures.
She'd always found the phrase oddly ominous for an engagement ring. When she discovered it years ago, she'd asked Richard's mother about it, but the older woman had been vague, mentioning something about family tradition and values. Victoria had let it drop, assuming it was some Victorian-era sentiment about fidelity or honor. Now, the words felt like an accusation.
Across town, Amara pushed through the doors of St. Catherine's shelter, her shoulders hunched against the weight of failure. The main room was crowded with the usual afternoon chaos: people lined up for the dinner service that would start in an hour, others clustered around the television or sitting at tables playing cards. She found her mother in their assigned corner—a space barely large enough for two cots, separated by a hanging sheet for privacy.
Nia was lying down, her eyes closed, but Amara could tell she wasn't really sleeping. Her mother never really slept anymore, just closed her eyes and waited for time to pass.
"Mama?"
Nia's eyes opened immediately, focusing on her daughter with the sharp awareness of someone always expecting bad news. "Where were you?"
"Just walking." The lie came easily; Amara had learned early that some truths only made things harder.
But Nia knew her too well. She sat up slowly, wincing slightly. The cough that had been plaguing her for months made every movement an effort. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Amara." Her mother's voice carried a warning. "Don't lie to me."
The words burst out before Amara could stop them: "I saw her. The woman from the photograph. The one wearing Grandmother's ring."
The color drained from Nia's face. For a moment, she looked like she might faint, and Amara rushed forward, grabbing her mother's hand.
"Mama, I'm sorry! I just wanted to know! I wanted to understand!"
"What did you say to her?" Nia's voice was barely a whisper.
"I told her you had the ring. That I recognized it."
"Oh, God." Nia pulled her hand away, pressing it against her mouth. "Oh, God. Amara, what have you done?"
"I just wanted answers! You won't tell me anything. You won't talk about before, about Grandmother, about why we're here instead of—"
"Instead of what?" Nia's voice was sharp now, edged with panic. "Instead of living some fairy tale? There is no 'instead,' baby! This is our life! This is what we have! And we survive by staying invisible, by not asking questions, by not drawing attention!"
"But the ring, Mama! Grandmother is wearing it in the picture, and now that rich white lady has it! How does that happen?"
Nia was shaking her head, her breathing becoming rapid and shallow in a way that scared Amara. She recognized the signs of one of her mother's panic attacks, the ones that had become more frequent as her health declined.
"There are dangerous people connected to that ring," Nia managed to say between gasping breaths. "People who want the past to stay buried. You can't go around asking about it. You can't!"
"What people? What past?"
But Nia was standing now, pacing in the tiny space despite her obvious weakness. "Promise me you'll stay away from her. From that woman. Promise me, Amara."
"Mama—"
"Promise me!"
"Okay. Okay, I promise."