The Guests Arrive

Elena was wedged between the two "cousins" on a velvet settee, their muscled shoulders pinning her in place like living bookends. They were dressed in tailored linen blazers, but the way they scanned the room with dead eyes screamed private security. Every time she tried to adjust her posture, the man on her right shifted his weight, his elbow digging into her bruised ribs as a silent warning.

The Grand Ballroom was a hive of expensive perfume and hollow laughter. Constance moved through the crowd like a queen mother, her cream lace catching the morning light as she accepted condolences for the "tragic accident" that had befallen the house. Guests sipped mimosas from crystal flutes, oblivious to the fact that the woman in the lavender dress was a prisoner on a stage.

"Eat something, Elena," the guard on her left muttered, sliding a small plate of quiche toward her. "You need to look healthy for the photo op."

"I'm not hungry," Elena said, her voice sounding metallic in her own ears.

She looked toward the buffet line, searching for Maya. The girl was standing next to a tower of fruit, her face as pale as the marble pillars. Maya’s eyes flickered to Elena, then to the guards. She began to walk toward them, her steps slow and deliberate, weaving through the clusters of socialites.

"Grandmother says I should sit with Elena," Maya said, her voice steady as she reached the settee.

The guard on the right frowned. "The seating chart is fixed, Miss Maya."

"It's Founder's Day," Maya countered, a flash of Hawthorne steel in her eyes. "Are you going to argue with me in front of the Senator?"

The guard glanced at Senator Vance, who was standing ten feet away, and reluctantly slid over an inch. Maya squeezed into the small gap next to Elena, her leg pressing against her stepmother’s.

Under the cover of the long, drooping white tablecloth, Elena felt a small, cold object slide into her hand. It was a smartphone—not a burner, but Julian’s personal device. Maya must have swiped it while he was distracted by his third scotch.

"I found it in the library," Maya whispered, her lips barely moving as she pretended to look at the flower arrangement on the table.

Elena gripped the phone beneath her skirt, her heart thundering. She didn't dare look at the screen yet. She felt Maya’s hand squeeze hers, a silent pact formed in the middle of a war zone.

Constance stepped onto the small dais at the front of the room, tapping a silver spoon against a crystal glass. The room fell silent, the collective gaze of Charleston’s elite turning toward the matriarch.

"Thank you all for coming," Constance said, her voice warm and melodic. "As many of you know, it has been a difficult week for the Hawthornes. But legacy is not built on easy days."

Elena used the vibration of the applause to slip the phone into the fold of her dress and glance down. A notification was already blinking on the lock screen. It was an encrypted message from an unsaved number.

She tapped the alert, her thumb shaking. The message was short, a single line of text that recontextualized everything.

'Liam is outside,' the text read.