Page 68 of The Lies We Play

Which is often.

The foundation funds a quarter of what we do. The Saint Claires have been quietly underwriting Italian conservation since Cornelius was alive. And I have spent eight years pretending the name on the grant letterhead and the name on my marriage certificate are separate words that happen to share spelling.

It is a lie I have told myself so well I almost believed it last Thursday.

“They want me to sign off on what, exactly?”

“That’s the thing.” Sofia opens the folder. “I don’t really know. The cover letter is—read it.”

She hands it to me.

The paper is thick. Expensive. Of course it is. Rich people can't even threaten you on normal stationery. The Saint Claire Foundation letterhead sits at the top, elegant and blue-black, the name arranged like a promise it has no intention of keeping.

I scan the first page.

Administrative language. Temporary restriction. Transfer review. Chain of custody. Reputational sensitivity. Legal compliance.

Every phrase is a locked door wearing perfume.

Then I see the project code.

H.W.S.C. / SC Foundation—Transfer Review Pending

The room tilts.

Not dramatically enough to faint, which is good because fainting is embarrassing, and I try to avoid making a scene unless there is a guest list and lighting. But something inside me drops too fast.

H.W.S.C.

My body knows those initials.

It knows them before I can make sense of them.

Halston Wolfe Saint Claire.

The name rises from somewhere deep enough that it feels less like thought and more like a hand reaching up through dark water.

I grip the folder.

Bella comes alive.

This time, there is no hiding it.

My left hand trembles so hard the papers rattle.

Sofia’s eyes widen.

Moises crosses the room.

“Livia,” he says.

I set the folder on the table before it can fall. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Moises says, very gently. “You’re not.”

I almost hate him for saying it.

Almost.