Ruth stepped behind her. “Let’s check the zipper tension.”
The moment she lowered the silver zipper and pulled the satin away from Emma’s spine, the fantasy shattered.
Dark bruises and cruel red marks crossed my sister’s pale back.
Fresh. Deliberate. Violent.
Ruth gasped and stumbled back, covering her mouth. “Oh, dear God.”
Emma looked up and caught my reflection in the three-panel mirror. All color drained from her face. She yanked the dress against her chest and whispered, “Please, Claire. Don’t.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t rush forward. Years of training turned my fear into ice.
“Who did this to you?” I asked.
Her lip trembled. One tear slipped down her cheek. “Nathan.”
The groom.
The charming heir. The polished man our mother adored. The man who called our father “sir” and smiled like respect was something he had practiced in a mirror. Nathan Caldwell, son of Victor Caldwell, a billionaire who treated the world like something he could buy, break, or bury.
My hands curled into fists. “Why?”
