They thought she was in a facility in Switzerland. They thought she was incapable of travel. They certainly didn’t expect her to walk through the heavy oak doors of the chapel just as the organist began the prelude.
Clara stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of Casablanca lilies—too many of them. It smelled less like a celebration and more like a funeral parlor.
A hush rippled through the back pews. It started as a murmur, a low vibration of confusion, before sharpening into distinct whispers.
“Is that…?”
“It can’t be.”
“Look at the limp. It’s her.”
Clara ignored them. Her right leg ached, the titanium pins in her femur protesting the damp ocean air, but she didn’t let her stride falter. She walked with the rhythm of a soldier marching into enemy territory. She scanned the front of the room.
There was her father, Marcus Sterling, standing tall and proud in his tuxedo. He looked exactly the same: silver-haired, imposing, radiating the kind of chilly authority that made grown men stutter. He was checking his watch, impatient for the coronation of his favorite child.
