Chapter 4 Sister of Ashes

The sea moaned against the cliffs like it knew something was about to die.

Alora stood near the crumbled base of the old lighthouse, her coat cinched tightly around her waist, the hem of her dress lashing at her calves in the rising wind. Salt clung to her skin. Fog pushed in from the east, swallowing the edge of the horizon in ghost-white fingers.

Behind her: silence.

Ahead of her: confrontation.

She had told herself she was ready. But even now, staring into the encroaching dusk, Alora wasn't sure whether she was arriving as sister, survivor, or executioner.

Then, like smoke rising from memory, Faye appeared.

No fanfare. No footsteps. Just materialized, draped in a long dark coat, hair pulled back into a high, severe knot. In her eyes danced something wild-half defiance, half sorrow. A fire already half-burned.

"Nice spot," Faye said. "You always did love dramatic settings."

"I learned from the best," Alora replied, stepping forward. "Or maybe the worst."

Faye gave a small smirk, but the humor didn't stay.

"So," Alora said, "are we doing this? The sister showdown? Or is this another one of your disappearing acts?"

"No vanishing this time," Faye said. "I'm here. And I owe you the truth."

The Cliffs, 15 Years Ago

Two teenage girls sit barefoot on the rocks, watching the lighthouse beam stutter over the sea.

"You think Mom loved Dad?" Alora asked, drawing circles in the sand.

"Not really," Faye replied, tossing a shell into the waves. "I think she loved the idea of him. Like how people love fireworks until they realize the noise doesn't go away."

Alora looked at her sister, heart heavy. "What do you love?"

Faye turned her head toward the waves, eyes unreadable. "Freedom. Even when it hurts."

Back in the Present

Faye walked toward the cliff's edge, standing inches from the fall. "You were always the root," she said. "Always holding everything down. Me? I was the wind. Always tearing away."

"You were reckless," Alora said coldly. "Not free."

"Maybe," Faye said. "But I never claimed to be the hero."

Alora's hands balled into fists. "Then tell me-why now? Why come back after vanishing for five years? Why destroy what I built?"

Faye turned slowly. Her face was calm, but her voice held an edge of flame.

"Because they ruined me, Alora. And now I'm here to ruin them back."

Faye reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. She handed it to Alora.

The image was faded, black-and-white, but clear enough. Two women-Faye and an older woman-standing in front of a gallery exhibit. Smiling. Holding a painting.

"She was my mentor," Faye said. "Vivienne Cora. French expatriate. She taught me everything about restoration, authenticity, and the politics of art. We curated pieces from underground European circles. Until one night, she died in a fire."

Alora stared. "What does this have to do with us?"

Faye's eyes sharpened. "The fire wasn't an accident. It was staged. And the person who profited from it? Was Helen Ashcombe."

Alora's breath caught. "That's not possible."

"She laundered stolen art through the Raven Gallery under a false charity," Faye said. "I found the paper trail. Letters. Signatures. She used me as the scapegoat. Paid off investigators. And when I tried to speak, the lawsuit in New Orleans silenced me."

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"Would you have believed me?" Faye asked. "Back then, when you wore pearls like shackles and thought Jeff was your rescue boat?"

Alora swallowed. Silence.

Faye looked away. "I didn't come back for him, Alora. I came back because the Ashcombes took everything from us. And you-if you stayed married to Jeff-you'd be their next trophy."

Plot Twist: Faye's Return Is Not Romantic – It's Strategic

Faye's marriage to Jeff was a move, not a love story. Her goal: to gain legal access to Ashcombe assets, expose Helen, and take down the family empire from within. The wedding was never about love-it was a power play. And Jeff knew.

"He agreed?" Alora asked, horrified.

"He helped me," Faye confirmed. "Because even he realized too late the Ashcombes aren't royalty. They're poison vines in a velvet garden."

Alora felt the pieces shift.

Her rage.

Her heartbreak.

Now tangled in something deeper: a war.

Suddenly, headlights cut through the mist.

A black car. Parking slowly on the dirt road near the cliffs.

Alora and Faye both turned.

From the vehicle stepped Helen Ashcombe. Regal in a blood-red coat, flanked by two men in dark suits.

"Well," she said, stepping forward, "isn't this a cozy reunion?"

Alora stiffened.

Faye didn't move.

Helen's smile was surgical.

"You thought I wouldn't find out about your little scavenger hunt, Faye?" she asked. "You thought you could marry my son, dig through my archives, and I'd just clap politely?"

Faye smirked. "I don't need your applause, Helen. Just your confession."

Helen's eyes narrowed. "You're clever. I'll give you that. But cleverness doesn't win wars. Power does. And I've had it long enough to know how to silence traitors."

She turned to Alora. "You, of all people, should know when to walk away."

Alora met her gaze, spine straight. "I'm not walking. I'm digging."

Helen's lips curled. "Then you'd better bring a shovel. I bury people with class."

The wind howled. The sea crashed harder. In the distance, lightning fractured the sky like glass.

Faye stepped beside Alora.

Helen turned away, back toward the car. "This isn't over."

Alora called after her.

"No," she said. "It's just beginning."