Chapter 3

I plucked the white rose from Ethan's unresisting fingers.

Its petals were soft, almost too perfect. Like him.

"A beautiful gesture, Ethan," I said, my voice cool. "But perhaps misplaced."

I turned to where Emily White hovered awkwardly near the punch bowl, her eyes darting between Ethan and me. She looked like a starving cat watching two dogs fight over a scrap of meat.

"Miss White," I called out, my voice carrying easily over the din.

She jumped, startled.

I walked towards her, Ethan trailing helplessly behind me.

"A token," I said, offering her the rose. "For your... upcoming happiness."

Emily stared at the rose, then at me, suspicion warring with a dawning, greedy hope in her eyes.

"Thank you, Princess Isabella," she stammered, taking the flower.

Ethan made a choked sound.

I turned back to him. "You asked if my feelings were a lie, Ethan."

He looked at me, his eyes pleading.

"The girl who loved you was a child, Ethan. A broken toy you played with when you were bored."

His face paled.

"As for this..." I reached into the small clutch I carried. My fingers closed around a small, tarnished silver locket.

He'd given it to me on my sixteenth birthday.

"It's an antique, Bella," he'd said, his voice full of false sentiment. "From a little shop in Vermont. It reminded me of your innocence."

Later, I'd seen an identical one in a Canal Street tourist trap. Ten dollars.

I held it out. "I believe this belongs with your other... inexpensive trinkets."

I pressed it into Emily's hand, the one not holding the rose.

"A wedding gift, perhaps? From one 'admirer' of Mr. Carter's taste to another."

Emily's eyes widened as she looked at the cheap locket, then at Ethan's stricken face. Understanding, and a flash of fury, crossed her features.

Ethan flinched as if I'd slapped him.

"Bella... please."

"Princess Isabella to you, Mr. Carter," I corrected him, my voice like ice. "And I believe you have a fiancée to attend to."

I turned away, leaving them in a tableau of silent, awkward misery.

The music swelled, and I allowed myself to be swept into a dance by a handsome young banker whose name I'd already forgotten.

Over his shoulder, I saw Ethan.

He wasn't looking at Emily.

He was watching me, his face a mask of bewildered pain.

Good.

Let him feel a fraction of what I'd felt.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite conversation and forced smiles.

My father, bless his heart, was ecstatic. He paraded me around, showing off his "miracle daughter."

"She's back, my Bella's back!" he boomed to anyone who would listen.

And they all listened.

The power of the Rothschild name, now combined with a beautiful, intelligent, and *sane* heiress?

I was the catch of the season.

As the party wound down, and guests began to depart, I found myself standing near the grand staircase, accepting well wishes.

"Princess, you look radiant tonight."

"A remarkable recovery, truly."

"We must have lunch soon."

I smiled, nodded, and made vague promises.

Then, a familiar figure approached.

Not Ethan.

This man was taller, broader, with an air of quiet capability that Ethan, for all his polish, lacked.

Michael "Mike" Sterling.

Head of my father's security detail. And, for as long as I could remember, my personal bodyguard.

The man who had pulled my broken body from the wreckage of that car crash twelve years ago.

The crash that had killed my mother.

The crash that had stolen my mind.

Until now.