The Orphan's Half-Meddleion Shattered the Gala — But the Truth Was Even Darker

The Portrait That Told a Different Story

The Hawthorne estate was a mansion that made the gala hall look like a cottage. But as we drove through the iron gates, I pressed my face to the window and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air.

Maya sat beside me in the backseat, her hand in mine. She hadn't let go since we left the gala. "I always knew I had a sister," she whispered. "I used to dream about you."

I wanted to smile, but I couldn't. Because something was wrong.

Beatrice sat in the front seat, her head turned away, and Edward drove with his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Neither of them spoke. Not once.

When we reached the house, a butler opened the door, and I was led into a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase and a chandelier that could have lit a small town. But I didn't look at the chandelier. I looked at the wall.

Because there, in a huge gold frame, hung a portrait of Maya — and only Maya. A baby, cradled in Beatrice's arms, with a small silver rattle in her hand. And behind them, a man I didn't recognize, fading into the shadows.

"Who is that?" I asked, pointing at the man.

Beatrice flinched. "No one. An old family friend."

But Edward's jaw tightened, and he shot her a look that said: not in front of the child.

I said nothing. But I remembered the half-medallion in my pocket, and the inscription on the back that I had never been able to read because it was worn smooth. I had always thought it was a name. Now I wondered if it was a warning.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I crept out of the room they'd given me — a princess room with a canopy bed and a closet full of new dresses — and padded down the hallway in my bare feet.

I found Edward in his study, the door ajar. He was standing at the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, talking to someone on the phone.

"She can't find out," he was saying. "You told me it was handled. You told me she was dead."

My heart stopped.

"I don't care what it costs," Edward continued, his voice cracking. "I don't care what you have to do. She cannot know the truth."

I backed away, my hand over my mouth. But I bumped into a small table, and a vase crashed to the floor.

Edward spun around. His face went pale when he saw me.

"Mia," he breathed. "I — that was — it's not what you think."

"Who am I?" I asked, my voice shaking. "Who was that man in the portrait?"

Edward closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet. "Your mother," he said. "Your real mother."

I felt the floor tilt beneath me. "But — you're my father. You and Beatrice —"

"Beatrice is Maya's mother," Edward said, his voice barely a whisper. "But you, Mia — you were born to a woman I loved before Beatrice. A woman who died the night you were born."

"And Dean Hargreaves?" I asked, remembering the way he had looked at me. "Why did he try to throw me out?"

Edward's face twisted. "Because he was there. The night you were taken."

I didn't understand. "Taken?"

"I didn't know," Edward said, stepping toward me. "I swear to you, Mia — I didn't know you were alive. Beatrice was jealous. She knew about your mother. And when you were born, she —"

He stopped. But the word hung in the air like smoke.

"She sold me," I said. "She sold me to the orphanage."

Edward didn't deny it. He just stood there, tears streaming down his face, and nodded.

"And Dean Hargreaves," I said, the pieces clicking together. "He helped her."

"He was the one who took you," Edward said. "He was supposed to find you a good home. Instead, he took you to the orphanage and told Beatrice you were dead."

I heard a gasp behind me. I turned to see Beatrice standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, her face as white as her cape.

"Mia," she whispered. "I didn't — I never meant —"

"You meant to get rid of me," I said, and my voice didn't sound like a six-year-old's. It sounded like someone who had already learned too much about the world. "And you did."

Beatrice broke down, sobbing. But I didn't feel sorry for her. I felt sorry for the little girl in the portrait — the one who had been raised in this gilded cage, never knowing she had a sister who was sleeping in a dormitory bed with a hole in her blanket.

"I want to go back," I said, backing toward the door. "I want to go home."

"This is your home now," Edward said, reaching for me. "Mia, please —"

"No," I said, and I ran.

I ran down the hallway, past the portrait, past the marble columns, until I reached the front door. But it was locked. And behind me, I heard footsteps.

"Mia, wait," Maya's voice called out. "Please — I just found you."

I turned to see her standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes red, her braids coming loose. She looked like me. She was me, in a different dress.

"I don't know who I am," I said, my voice breaking. "I don't know if I'm a Hawthorne or a nobody."

Maya walked down the stairs, slowly. "You're my sister," she said. "That's all that matters."

But as she hugged me, I saw something over her shoulder. Dean Hargreaves was standing in the hallway, watching us. And he was holding a phone to his ear.

"She knows," he said. "Yes. She knows everything."

And then he smiled.