CLAIRE.

The house was too quiet without him.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my old bedroom, the one that still smelled faintly of the lavender detergent he’d always insisted on, and let the towel drop. Cool air kissed my skin. My nipples tightened instantly. I told myself it was just the temperature. I knew better.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaked.

My pulse jumped.

Elena.

My father’s elegant, untouchable widow. Forty-three. Still wearing black silk like mourning was a fashion choice. The woman who had smiled at me across dinner tables for six years while her gaze lingered a second too long on my mouth, my...