Victoria crossed the room as though walking through water. Conversations faded. Someone lowered the string quartet’s volume without being asked.
When she reached the woman, Victoria’s voice came out a cracked whisper.
“That necklace… where did you get it?”
The server—nametag reading ROSALIE—touched the pendant instinctively, eyes wide with alarm.
“Ma’am, I—I’ve had it my whole life. They told me I was wearing it when they found me.”
Victoria’s knees nearly gave way.
Found.
She remembered smoke, flames licking the walls of Ashford Manor, the screams of guests, the nanny running with the baby in her arms and then… nothing. A lifetime of private investigators, billboards, reward money, and endless nights staring at an empty crib.
She swallowed hard and managed, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Rosalie, ma’am. Everyone just calls me Rosie.”
Rosie.
The childhood nickname Victoria had given her daughter because the toddler had loved roses more than any toy.
Victoria’s hand flew to her mouth. Tears spilled before she could stop them.
“Rosie,” she repeated, tasting twenty-five years of prayers on her tongue.
The younger woman looked terrified now, clutching the water pitcher like a shield.