The Whitmore Foundation glittered under the evening lights, its glass walls reflecting the city like a mirror. Inside, the exhibition hall buzzed with quiet preparation — servers adjusting trays, curators whispering instructions, journalists gathering outside the entrance like a pack of hungry wolves.

Tonight was supposed to be about art. Instead, it was about the truth she had never meant to reveal.

Amara stood backstage, staring into the mirror as Jenna tightened the clasp of her black velvet gown. Her hair was swept back in soft waves, her makeup minimal — elegant, controlled, perfect. She looked like a woman ready to conquer the world.

But her eyes… They betrayed the...