The Gala Heiress: A Birthmark, a Medallion, and a Family Torn Apart

The Orphanage File That Made a Matron a Murderer

The Morettis didn't waste a second. Within the hour, a lawyer was summoned, and the two of us—Charlotte and I—sat on a velvet couch in a private suite at the Ritz, holding hands like we were afraid the other would vanish. Lorenzo paced, making frantic phone calls. Sofia cried quietly, stroking my hair as if she couldn't believe I was real.

"We never stopped looking," she whispered. "Seven years ago, our twins were taken from the hospital. We thought you were both lost. We only found Charlotte, alone in a park, with no memory of what happened."

My head spun. I'd spent my whole life in that orphanage, never adopted, always told I was 'too difficult.' But Constance Pryce had always looked at me with a strange, private smile—like she was holding a secret over my head.

That night, while the Morettis argued with lawyers about legal custody, I slipped away to the orphanage. I knew Constance kept files in her office, locked in a cabinet she thought no one could open. But I'd spent years watching her, learning her habits, memorizing the way she fumbled with the key when she was drunk on sherry.

I found the file. It was thin, but it was damning. A birth certificate—my birth certificate—with the name 'Chloe Moretti' and a mother's name that didn't match the one I'd been told. And beneath it, a handwritten letter, yellowed with age, signed by Constance Pryce herself.

"The Moretti twins are separated. I've placed one with the family. The other will stay with me. The mother knows too much—she must be dealt with."

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the letter. The fire that killed my mother. The fire that happened when I was only a baby. It wasn't an accident. It was Constance.

I heard footsteps in the hall. Constance's heels, tapping like a countdown.

I shoved the letter into my dress and slipped out the back door, but I wasn't fast enough. She caught me in the alley, her face twisted with rage.

"You think you can waltz into a family like that?" she hissed. "You're nothing. You've always been nothing. I made you nothing."

"You killed my mother," I said, my voice steady for the first time in my life.

Constance laughed—a cold, brittle sound. "Prove it. That letter is worthless. It says nothing about a fire."

But I wasn't done. I'd found more in that file. A photograph, tucked behind the letter, of Constance standing in front of a burning house, holding a match. The date matched the fire that had killed my mother. The house number was visible in the background.

"The police will love this," I said.

And then I ran. I ran all the way to the Morettis' hotel, clutching that photograph like it was my last breath. But when I burst through the doors, I saw Constance's car pulling up behind me. She'd followed me.

I didn't go to the Morettis' suite. I went straight to the police station, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. I had the evidence. I had the truth. But as I reached for the station door, I felt a hand grab my shoulder, and I knew that Constance Pryce wasn't going to let me go without a fight.