PART 2

The servants’ pantry was three floors below the ballroom.

No windows.

No music.

No chandeliers.

Only shelves of silverware, the smell of soap, and one weak yellow bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Iris preferred it.

Down here, nobody looked for her.

Nobody expected anything from her.

She placed the clean glᴀsses on the shelf one by one.

Her hands had stopped shaking.

Almost.

The old scar beneath her ribs burned.

It always did when danger came close.

Tonight, it felt like fire.

She had seen Adrian Moreau.

After five years.

Five years of running.

Five years of sleeping lightly.

Five years of changing towns, names, jobs.

Five years of waiting for someone to discover that the quiet servant named Iris Vane did not exist.

She had survived because she had become invisible.

Now one man had looked at her for three seconds—

and somehow, she was afraid he had seen through everything.

The pantry door opened.

Iris didn’t turn around.

She knew the footsteps.

Marcus.

She heard the lock slide into place.

Her fingers тιԍнтened around the polishing cloth.

“Little servant.”

His voice was different now.

No laughter.

No audience.

Only anger.

Iris continued polishing.

“I’m sorry about earlier, Mr. Duvall.”

“You embarrᴀssed me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You made everyone laugh.”

She turned slowly.

Marcus stood between her and the door.

His jacket was gone.

His tie hung loose.

The alcohol on his breath was stronger than before.

“I said I was sorry.”

“You think that fixes it?”

“No, sir.”

He stepped closer.

“Get on your knees.”

Iris stared at him.

For half a second, the old fear returned.

Not fear of Marcus.

Fear of herself.

Because she knew exactly how this could end.

She lowered her eyes.

“Please let me go back to work.”

His hand closed around her arm.

“I said kneel.”

His other hand rose.

Iris moved.

There was no hesitation.

No panic.

No wasted motion.

She caught his wrist before it reached her.

Marcus froze.

The frightened maid disappeared.

Iris stepped inside his reach, shifted her weight, and turned.

His balance broke.

He stumbled forward.

Before he could recover, she redirected his arm and sent him hard against the edge of the shelving.

He groaned.

Iris caught him before he fell.

Then she used one precise strike beneath his collarbone.

Marcus’s legs weakened.

His body went slack.

She lowered him carefully to the floor.

Silence returned.

Iris stood over him.

Her breathing was steady.

She straightened her uniform.

Adjusted her apron.

Then picked up the polishing cloth.

It would have looked almost ordinary.

Except for the man unconscious at her feet.

She turned toward the door.

And stopped.

Someone was standing behind the frosted glᴀss.

Tall.

Motionless.

Watching.

Iris’s heart stopped.

The door opened.

Adrian Moreau stood there.

He wasn’t angry.

That frightened her more.

His gaze moved from Marcus—

to Iris—

then back to Marcus.

He closed the door behind him.

“You aren’t a maid.”

Iris said nothing.

Adrian took one step closer.

“That was the Blackthorn reversal.”

Her face changed.

Only slightly.

But he noticed.

“No one teaches that anymore.”

Still, she remained silent.

Adrian studied her.

“I’ve spent five years looking for the woman who used it.”

Iris’s pulse quickened.

“Five years ago,” he continued, “the Vercelli family disappeared.”

Her eyes lowered.

“The newspapers said every member of the family was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

Silence.

“Every member except one.”

Iris looked up.

Adrian’s eyes met hers.

And there was something in them she had not expected.

Not hatred.

Not suspicion.

Recognition.

“You have the same scar.”

Her hand instinctively moved toward her side.

Adrian noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was the wrong answer.

He smiled faintly.

“That’s interesting.”

He stepped closer.

“Because I’ve been searching for a ghost for five years.”

Iris’s voice was barely audible.

“Why?”

“Because that night, someone saved my life.”

Her eyes widened.

Adrian reached into his coat.

He pulled out the old silver lighter.

The same damaged edge.

The same scratches.

The same object she had believed was buried with the past.

“I found this beside me that night.”

Iris stared at it.

Adrian’s voice softened.

“The person who carried me out of that building disappeared before I woke up.”

He paused.

“I spent five years trying to find her.”

Iris swallowed.

“You won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

Adrian looked at her for a long moment.

Then his gaze shifted to the unconscious man on the floor.

“ᴅᴇᴀᴅ women don’t move like that.”

Iris’s breath caught.

He knew.

Perhaps not everything.

But enough.

Adrian stepped closer until there was barely a few feet between them.

“Tell me your real name.”

She said nothing.

He waited.

“I can keep pretending you’re a servant,” he said quietly.

His eyes held hers.

“Or you can tell me why the last daughter of the Vercelli family has been hiding in my house for two years.”

The blood drained from Iris’s face.

Because she finally understood.

He hadn’t merely recognized her fighting technique.

He had been looking for her.

All these years.

And now he had found her.

The question was no longer whether Adrian Moreau knew who she was.

The question was why the most feared man in the city had spent five years searching for a woman the rest of the world believed was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.