Chapter 92:

Matriarch Vane saw her. She waved the bodyguards aside.

“Victoria,” Matriarch Vane whispered.

The two old women locked eyes. Nineteen years of silence, broken by shared pain.

Matriarch Vane reached out. Matriarch Kensington took her hand.

“We are two old fools,” Vane said, her voice cracking. “Missing the same ghost.”

“She is here,” Kensington said. “Or so you believe.”

Vivian stood awkwardly to the side, clutching her rejected flowers. She looked at the two matriarchs holding hands, ignoring her completely.

Eleanor stepped forward. “Vivian just wanted to show her respect.”

Sylvia turned to Eleanor. “Respect is silent. This,” she gestured to the flowers and the scene, “is noise.”

The Vane group moved on, sweeping Matriarch Kensington along with them toward the waiting limousines.

Vivian was left standing alone on the polished floor. She let out a scream of frustration and threw the lilies into a trash can.

The vases shattered.

“I hate them,” Vivian hissed. “I hate them all.”

“Calm down,” Eleanor grabbed her arm. “This isn’t over. We just need to find out what they know.”

In the lead limousine, Matriarch Vane leaned back against the headrest.

“Take us to the hospital,” she said. “I need to see the boy. Julian.”

“Is he awake?” Sylvia asked.

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“No,” the Matriarch said. “But he was with her. And he carries the genetic markers. If we can confirm his status, we confirm hers.”

The private wing of the Capital Hospital was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and expensive floor wax. Julian Kensington lay in the bed, his face pale, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator.

Matriarch Vane wheeled herself to the bedside. She reached out and touched Julian’s hand. It was cold.

“He was there,” she whispered. “That night. He was in the car with her.”

She pushed back the sleeve of his hospital gown. She turned his arm over, exposing the soft skin of the inner forearm. There, faint but undeniable, was a birthmark. A small, red crescent moon.

Matriarch Vane gasped. “The Vane Mark.”

Sylvia leaned in. “I thought that skipped a generation?”

“It does,” the Matriarch said, her eyes wide. “My daughter… Aurora’s mother… she had it. And Julian has it. Which means…”

“If the girl is real,” Sylvia said, “she might have it too.”

“We look for the mark,” the Matriarch said, her voice trembling with hope. “It is the first clue. If we find the mark, we demand the DNA test. But first, we need a suspect.”

Outside the door, Vivian Kensington pressed her ear against the wood. She held her breath.

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