The Gala Orphan’s Twin Shocks a Diamond Mogul When She Lifts Her Wrist

The Lancaster Academy Founders Hall glittered like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers scattering light across white columns and dark herringbone parquet. Society's elite swirled in silk and diamonds, but I stood in the doorway, my patched grey wool dress a stain on their perfection. My chestnut curls had been brushed that morning by a stern orphanage matron, but they still stuck out at odd angles.

I clutched the left half of a gold sun medallion in my sweaty palm. It was warm from years of holding, its edges worn smooth. On my right wrist, a star-rose birthmark peeked out from under my too-short sleeve. I had been told this mark was special, that it would lead me to family. But all it had led me to was a locked door and a gala I had to sneak into.

The Buffet Was Guarded by a Dragon in Crimson Satin

My eyes found the buffet table, piled with tiny quiches and chocolate-dipped strawberries. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since yesterday. I took a step forward, but a wall of crimson satin blocked me.

Constance Pryce, the academy's most feared matron, looked down at me like I was a cockroach. Her white opera gloves were spotless, her dark hair swept into an elaborate twist. "Orphans aren't allowed in here," she said, her voice dripping with ice.

My throat tightened. I had practiced what to say all night. "Please—I just need to show someone my medallion." I held it up, but she only sneered.

"There's a service exit behind the kitchen," she said. "Use it before I call security."

I stepped back, tears burning my eyes. The room felt huge, and I was so small. But I would not leave. Not yet. I had come too far.

"I'm looking for my twin," I said, louder than I meant to. My voice echoed off the marble.

Constance froze. Her eyes flicked to my wrist, where the star-rose birthmark was visible. Something like fear crossed her face, but she masked it quickly.

"Don't be dramatic," she hissed. "You're just a street rat looking for a handout."

But I wasn't looking at her anymore. I was looking past her, at a little girl across the room. She had the same chestnut curls, the same round face, the same wide eyes. She wore a velvet navy gala dress and held the hand of a stunning dark-haired woman in a white fur-trimmed cape.

"Charlotte," I breathed, though I had never spoken that name aloud. I just knew it, like I knew my own heartbeat.

Charlotte gasped. She pulled the woman—Sofia Moretti, I would later learn—and a tall man with silver hair forward. They stumbled, their eyes locked on me.

"Look at their identical faces," Sofia whispered.

Lorenzo Moretti, the diamond mogul whose face was on magazine covers, dropped to his knees before us. His hands trembled as he reached for my wrist. "Show me," he said, his voice breaking.

I pressed my wrist to Charlotte's. The star-rose birthmarks matched perfectly, two halves of the same flower. Then I brought out my medallion, and Charlotte pulled hers from under her dress. They clicked together, a perfect sun, the seam invisible.

Lorenzo wept aloud. "The two medallions lock together."

"Our family is whole again," Sofia breathed.

She pulled us both into her arms, and I felt something crack in my chest—a wall I had built around my heart. For the first time in seven years, I was not alone. But as I hugged my sister, I caught Constance's face over Sofia's shoulder. She was backing away, her lips pale, her eyes wide with terror. And I knew, in that moment, that she had not just been rude. She had been hiding something.