"And who else," Olivia's voice cut through the air, brittle and indifferent as a winter frost, "could it possibly be?"
Isabella lunged forward, her fingers trembling as they seized the silk collar of Olivia's gown. Her eyes were twin embers of fury.
"Olivia, I am in no mood for your riddles! Where is my father? Do not think your petty deceptions will work on me anymore!"
Olivia did not offer the grace of an explanation. Instead, she slowly raised her hand, letting a delicate silver chain slide through her fingers.
It caught the dying embers of the afternoon sun, shimmering with a sickly pallor. At its end hung a small, engraved plate: Edward Norman.
In the corner, a tiny, meticulously etched feather—a mark as unmistakable as a heartbeat.
The fire in Isabella's eyes died instantly, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. Her grip slackened, her fingers slipping from the silk.
