“Olivia,” I said, the name a prayer I hadn’t spoken aloud in two decades.
“I’m your mother.”
The silence that followed was louder than any scream. Jonathan staggered back, his face white, as if I had struck him. Olivia’s hand flew to her mouth, a sob tearing from her chest.
And in my arms, his grandson, my grandson, Ethan, cooed softly, as if the final piece of the puzzle had just clicked into place.
The king was dethroned. The ghost had a name. And the invisible woman was about to become the only thing in the room he couldn’t control.
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His empire was built on lies. My world was built on a single, buried truth. And it had just been brought into the light.
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