THE WHITE PARTY
The Hamptons, New York • Summer 2026
Every scandal has a beginning.
🎧 LISTEN TO EPISODE 001
33 min • Narrated by Lily
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THE WHITE PARTY
The Hamptons, New York. Summer 2026.
Every scandal has a beginning.
By eight o’clock, there were five hundred people dressed in white at Blackthorn. By midnight, none of them would look innocent.
Alexandra Vale didn’t know that yet. She knew only that the gates to her childhood home were taking far too long to open and that, after eighteen months away, she had forgotten quite how ridiculous the place looked when her grandmother was entertaining.
“Good God,” Alex murmured. The driver glanced at her in the mirror. “Sorry, Ms. Vale?” “Nothing.”
Beyond the tinted glass, Blackthorn glowed against the last streaks of a Hamptons sunset. The house sat high above the Atlantic behind acres of clipped hedges, old elms and lawns so immaculate they looked painted. Pale limestone stretched across three sprawling levels, interrupted by tall black-framed windows and French doors thrown open to the summer evening.
Blackthorn had been built in 1908 for a railroad baron with more money than restraint. Alex’s great-grandfather had acquired it in the thirties and, over four generations, the Vales had somehow made it both larger and less ridiculous. Mostly. Tonight was not one of those nights.
Hundreds of lanterns hung from the trees. White roses and hydrangeas spilled from stone urns taller than children. Thousands of candles flickered along the terraces and garden walls. Beyond the house, a temporary glass pavilion shimmered above the lower lawn, while the Atlantic stretched behind it, dark blue beneath the fading sky. Waiters in white jackets moved between guests carrying silver trays. Champagne glittered beneath chandeliers suspended impossibly from trees. Somewhere beyond the house, a string orchestra was playing as the ocean breeze carried fragments of music through the gardens.
Alex looked down at herself. White silk. Bare shoulders. Her grandmother’s diamond earrings. She had considered wearing red. Mostly to be irritating.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Theo. “Tell me you’ve landed.”
Alex smiled. She typed, “Define landed.”
Three dots appeared immediately. “Alexandra.”
She typed, “Outside.”
His reply arrived before she could put the phone away. “Don’t move.”
Alex laughed. Some things, apparently, didn’t change.
The enormous wrought-iron gates finally opened. And Alexandra Vale went home.
Theo Mercer was waiting at the bottom of the front steps when the car swept around the circular drive. Black tuxedo trousers. White dinner jacket. Bow tie already slightly crooked. Champagne in one hand. Same smile.
For one ridiculous second, Alex felt eighteen months collapse into nothing. The car stopped. She got out. Theo stared at her.
“Well?” “Well what?” “You disappear to Europe for a year and a half and that’s all I get?”
Alex opened her arms. He put down the champagne and hugged her. Properly. Not the careful air-kissing embrace she’d endured approximately four thousand times since becoming old enough to attend events like this.
Theo smelled the same. Soap, aftershave, familiarity.
“You’re an asshole,” he said into her hair. “I missed you too.” “You missed me so much you called me four times.” “Five.” “One was accidental.” “It still counts.”
He pulled away and looked at her. Something in his expression changed for half a second. Alex missed it.
“You look…” he began. “Older?” “European.” She narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?” “I have absolutely no idea.” “Excellent lawyering.” “Thank you.”
Alex glanced around. A pair of enormous arrangements of white roses flanked the entrance. Two men in dark suits checked invitations beneath the portico while another discreetly directed cars away from the house. A photographer somewhere beyond the gates shouted someone’s name.
Alex sighed. “I see Grandmother still believes in intimate gatherings.” “This is restrained.” “There are chandeliers in the trees.” “Last year there were swans.”
Alex stared at him. “Actual swans?” “Seven.” “Why seven?” “No one knew.”
Alex laughed and picked up his abandoned champagne. “That’s mine.” “Consider it compensation for emotional suffering.” “You caused the emotional suffering.” “Then sue me.” “I’ve thought about it.”
She took a sip. “Still terrible champagne?” “It’s apparently six hundred dollars a bottle.” “So yes.”
Alex smiled. God, she’d missed him.
From the top of the stairs came a familiar voice. “Alexandra.”
Alex closed her eyes. Theo grinned. “There she is.”
Only one person in the world could turn four syllables into both a greeting and a disciplinary procedure.
Alex turned. Eleanor Vale stood at the top of the limestone stairs. Seventy-four years old. Silver-blonde hair swept neatly back. Ivory silk trousers and a matching structured jacket. Emeralds at her ears. And in one hand, an extravagant black lacquered cane with a sculpted gold handle shaped like the head of a greyhound.
The cane was entirely unnecessary. Eleanor had ordered it from a craftsman in Florence three years earlier after announcing that if people insisted on treating women over seventy as though they were invisible, she intended to give them something to look at. It had worked.
Alex climbed the stairs. Her grandmother waited. Alex stopped in front of her.
“Hello, Grandmother.”
Eleanor inspected her from head to toe. “You’re thin.” “And you look lovely too.” “Europe didn’t feed you?” “Mostly croissants.” “Carbohydrates aren’t dinner.”
Alex kissed her cheek. Eleanor hooked the extravagant cane elegantly over her forearm, freeing both hands. Then she held Alex’s face between them for a moment.
There it was. The softness very few people ever saw.
“You stayed away too long,” Eleanor said quietly. “I know.”
Then it disappeared.
Eleanor looked past her. “Mr. Mercer.” “Mrs. Vale.” “You’re still unmarried.”
Theo sighed. “Nice to see you too.”
“Such a waste.”
“Grandmother.”
“What?” Eleanor tapped the gold greyhound against the stone. “He’s attractive. Educated. Employed.”
Theo nodded solemnly. “I’ve considered putting that on Hinge.”
Eleanor gave him the faintest smile.
Then her attention returned to Alex. “Your mother is looking for you. Your father is pretending not to. Sebastian has already had too much champagne, and his wife looks as though she has something to tell him.”
Alex frowned. “What?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have said looks as though.”
Of course. Eleanor Vale missed nothing.
“Welcome home, darling.” She kissed Alex’s cheek. Then, before walking away, added: “Try not to embarrass us tonight.”
Alex watched the black-and-gold cane disappear through the doors. She looked at Theo.
“Was that affectionate?”
“By Eleanor standards? Practically a sonnet.”
The White Party had begun twenty-seven years earlier as a dinner for forty people. Nobody seemed to remember how it had become this.
Alex and Theo walked through the house toward the ocean terrace. Blackthorn’s entrance hall rose through two storeys, its pale marble floor reflecting hundreds of candles. An enormous arrangement of white peonies sat beneath a crystal chandelier Alex remembered swinging from in her socks when she was nine.
Her mother had screamed. Her father had laughed. Her grandmother had asked whether anyone had photographed it.
Tonight, every set of French doors had been opened to the gardens. Guests flowed through drawing rooms filled with art Alex barely noticed because she’d grown up with it. Waiters passed beneath portraits of dead Vales carrying trays of oysters and champagne.
Outside, the scale of the party finally became apparent. The terrace descended in broad limestone steps toward the lawn. Beyond it, white-clothed tables curved around fountains filled with floating candles. A champagne tower rose beside the pool. Linen cabanas surrounded the gardens. The glass pavilion near the ocean reflected the final orange light of sunset.
The air smelled of roses, expensive perfume and salt.
And everywhere Alex looked, somebody wanted to welcome her home.
“Alexandra!” “Darling!” “When did you get back?” “Are you staying?” “Where have you been?” “Paris?” “Milan?” “Was there someone?”
That last question appeared with surprising frequency.
Alex smiled. Deflected. Accepted champagne. Forgot names. Remembered secrets.
She recognised actors, politicians, designers, financiers and people who appeared famous despite her having absolutely no idea why. A woman Alex had met twice kissed both her cheeks and spent four minutes telling her about a divorce Alex hadn’t asked about. An elderly man she’d known since childhood informed her she looked exactly like her mother. His wife immediately disagreed.
By nine fifteen, Alex wanted to climb out a bathroom window.
“You came.”
Alex turned. Seraphina Montclair stood behind her. For perhaps three seconds neither woman moved. Then Alex smiled. “Sera.”
Seraphina wrapped her arms around her. “You absolute bitch.”
Alex laughed into her shoulder. “That’s the second time I’ve been called that tonight.” “Only twice? You’ve gone soft.”
They separated. Seraphina looked extraordinary. Of course she did. Her white gown was simple enough to appear effortless and complicated enough that Alex knew at least six people had probably been involved in getting her into it. Honey-blonde hair fell over one shoulder. Diamonds at her ears. No necklace.
“Look at you,” Alex said. “I know.” “Still humble.” “I’ve worked very hard at it.”
Alex laughed. Seraphina took her hands.
“Eighteen months.” “I know.” “You missed my birthday.” “I sent you a bag.” “You sent my assistant a bag.” “You loved it.” “I did love it.” “So we’re even.” “We’re not remotely even.”
For the first time, something uncertain passed through Seraphina’s expression. “You really okay?”
Alex knew what she meant. She smiled. “I’m fine.”
Seraphina studied her. “You always say that when you’re not.” “And you always interrogate people at parties.” “Occupational hazard.” “You work in fashion.” “Exactly.”
A waiter passed. Seraphina exchanged her empty glass for another.
“So,” she said. “So?” “Who was he?”
Alex almost choked on her champagne. “There wasn’t a he.” “There is always a he.” “Not everything is about men.” “No. Some things are about shoes.” “Sera.” “Alex.”
They stared at one another. Then Seraphina smiled. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” “I intend to.” “Just remember I eventually find everything out.”
Alex smiled back. That, unfortunately, was true.
Across the terrace, a burst of laughter rose above the music. Alex glanced toward it. Sebastian.
Her brother was standing with three men near the bar, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink. He looked exactly as Alex remembered him. Expensive tuxedo. Perfect hair. Laughing too loudly at something that probably wasn’t funny.
Alex smiled automatically. Then noticed Seraphina wasn’t smiling. She was staring at Sebastian. Not obviously. Seraphina Montclair had been raised far too well for obvious staring. But Alex knew her. And she knew Sebastian.
Something passed between them across twenty metres of crowded terrace. Small. Almost nothing. Sebastian’s smile disappeared. Seraphina looked away.
Alex looked from one to the other. Interesting.
Before she could say anything, someone touched her arm. “Finally.”
Her mother. Celeste Vale kissed both her cheeks.
“You’re late.” “My plane was late.” “Your plane landed four hours ago.” “I needed time to prepare emotionally.” “For your family?” “For five hundred of your closest friends.”
Celeste smiled. At fifty-three, her mother remained one of those women who made Alex understand why people invented phrases like aging gracefully. She hadn’t become younger. She had simply become more herself. Tonight she wore a white silk column gown beneath a loose, almost transparent cape that moved whenever the ocean breeze reached the terrace.
“You look beautiful,” Celeste said. “So do you.” “I know.”
Alex stared at her. Celeste shrugged. “Your grandmother’s rubbing off on me.”
Behind her came Richard Vale. For the first time that evening, Alex felt something tighten in her throat.
“Dad.”
Richard opened his arms. Alex went straight into them. “My girl.” “Hi.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You planning to stay this time?” “Can I have one drink before the interrogation?” “No.”
She smiled. Richard stepped back and looked at her. “I missed you.” “I missed you too.”
And she had.
Whatever complicated feelings Alex had about being a Vale, her father had never felt complicated. He had been the parent who made pancakes badly on Sunday mornings. The parent who answered the phone at three a.m. The parent who flew twelve hours because she’d once called him crying from university and then refused to tell him why.
Richard Vale ran an empire. But to Alex, he was simply Dad.
“You’ve seen your grandmother?” he asked. “Apparently I’m malnourished.” “She told me I look tired.” “You do.” “Thank you.”
Celeste slipped her hand through Richard’s arm. “She also told me my flowers were excessive.”
Alex looked toward an urn overflowing with several hundred white roses. “They are.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Mine.”
Richard laughed. A man approached and murmured something in his ear. Richard’s expression shifted immediately into business.
“I’ll find you later.” “You always say that.” “This time I mean it.”
He kissed her cheek and walked away. Alex watched him disappear into the crowd.
“You’re staying, aren’t you?” Celeste asked.
Alex looked at her. “In New York?” “In your life.”
There were times Alex hated how well her mother knew her.
“I don’t know.”
Celeste squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to tonight.”
Then she followed Richard.
Alex exhaled. “Families.”
She expected Seraphina to agree. But Seraphina wasn’t there.
Amelia found her ten minutes later. “Don’t move.”
Alex froze. Amelia Vale approached carrying two champagne flutes and wearing the expression of a woman trying very hard not to smile.
“You’re pregnant,” Alex said.
Amelia stopped dead. The smile vanished. “What?”
Alex stared at her. Amelia stared back.
“Oh my God.” “Shut up.” “You are.” “Alex.” “You’re pregnant!” “Will you please stop saying it?”
Alex grabbed both her hands. “How far?” “Eight weeks.” “Does Sebastian know?”
Amelia’s expression answered before she did.
“You haven’t told him?”
“I was going to tonight.”
Alex threw her arms around her. “Oh my God.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I’m going to be an aunt.”
“You’re already an aunt to our dog.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Don’t say that in front of Winston.”
Alex laughed. Amelia looked radiant. Not in the ridiculous way people always said pregnant women glowed. She looked happy. Really happy. And suddenly Alex was glad she’d come home.
“Where is my idiot brother?”
“I was hoping you knew.”
“Last seen drinking with hedge-fund managers.”
“Of course.”
Amelia took back one of the champagne glasses. Alex stared at it.
“Should you be drinking that?”
“It’s sparkling water.”
“Oh.”
“Try not to announce my pregnancy to the entire Hamptons before I tell my husband.” “No promises.” “Alex.” “I promise.”
Amelia smiled. Then glanced across the terrace. Her expression changed. Alex followed her gaze. Sebastian was gone. But Seraphina was gone too.
At nine forty-seven, Alexandra Vale met Luca Laurent because he was standing in her way.
She had escaped through the eastern drawing room and down a quieter terrace overlooking the formal gardens. Here, the party became distant. Music softened beneath the sound of the ocean. Moonlight caught the surface of a long reflecting pool lined with white roses, and beyond the hedges the Atlantic appeared almost black.
Alex removed her heels. The limestone was still warm beneath her feet. She carried the shoes in one hand and descended toward the garden. Then stopped.
A man was leaning against the balustrade at the top of the stairs. Black tuxedo. No white dinner jacket. Dark hair moving slightly in the breeze. He was looking toward the ocean rather than the party, which Alex found interesting. Everyone else at Blackthorn tonight seemed determined to be seen.
“Sorry,” she said. He looked at her. And didn’t move. Alex waited. He continued looking at her.
“Do you mind?” He glanced behind himself. “Apparently I do.”
“You’re blocking the stairs.” “So I’ve gathered.” “Then perhaps…” She gestured. He stepped aside. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
She took two steps down.
“Shoes?”
Alex turned. “What about them?”
“Most people wear them at parties.”
“Most people at this party are idiots.”
He looked toward the house. “Finally, something we agree on.”
Alex stared at him. There was the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“Have we disagreed on something?”
“The stairs.”
She almost laughed. Almost.
“You’re not American.”
“Neither are most Americans in the Hamptons during August.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask one.”
Annoying. Very annoying.
Alex stepped back up. Now that they were standing at the same level, she could see him properly. Early thirties, perhaps. Dark eyes. A face that would have been too handsome if not for something slightly severe about it. No visible attempt to impress anyone. No glance toward her earrings. No nervous recognition of the surname he’d almost certainly already worked out.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Luca.”
“Just Luca?”
“For now.”
She waited. Nothing.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
That irritated her more than if he’d pretended not to.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Most people generally add something after that.”
“Such as?”
She mimicked one of the women she’d met earlier. “Alexandra! Darling! Europe! When did you get back? Was there someone?”
Luca smiled. Actually smiled. It transformed his face.
“Was there?”
Alex blinked. “What?”
“Someone.”
“You’re very nosy for a man blocking someone else’s staircase.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“You’re a stranger.”
“Exactly. Safest person to tell.”
Alex folded her arms. “Do women normally tell you their romantic history within five minutes of meeting you?”
“Three minutes.”
“You’re counting?”
“I was.”
She laughed despite herself. He noticed. That annoyed her too.
“Your turn,” she said.
“My romantic history?”
“God, no. Why are you here?”
“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Are you responsible for security?”
“Possibly.”
“Then your security is terrible.”
“Clearly. You got in.”
Another smile. Alex realised she was enjoying this. Which was inconvenient.
“Alexandra!”
Someone called from the terrace. Alex ignored it.
Luca glanced toward the voice. “You should go.”
“Are you dismissing me from my own garden?”
“I’m rescuing you.”
“From what?”
The voice came again. “Alexandra!”
Luca looked at her. “From whoever that is.”
Alex considered him. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless.”
“High praise.”
She stepped toward the stairs. “Goodnight, Luca.”
“Alexandra.”
She turned.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“I grew up here.”
“Then you should know there’s a sprinkler running at the bottom of those stairs.”
Alex looked down. A second later, water swept across the path. She stepped backwards.
Luca’s smile widened. She hated him a little.
“Enjoy the party,” he said.
Alex put her shoes back on. “I was until now.”
She walked away. She could feel him watching her. For some reason, she didn’t mind.
Luca waited until Alexandra disappeared around the corner. Then he took out his phone.
One message. From his father.
“Have you seen her?”
Luca looked toward the house. He typed, “Yes.”
The reply came quickly.
“And?”
Luca stared at the screen. Deleted the first answer he wrote. Then the second.
Finally, he typed, “She’s not what I expected.”
He put the phone away.
Behind him, a voice said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Luca turned. Richard Vale stood at the top of the stairs. The warmth Alex had seen in her father’s face twenty minutes earlier was gone.
Luca slipped his hands into his pockets. “Good evening, Richard.”
“Where is your father?”
“No idea.”
“Don’t play games with me.”
“Then don’t ask questions you know I won’t answer.”
Richard came down one step. “This is my home.”
“Yes.”
“My family.”
“Yes.”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
For the first time, Luca’s expression hardened. “I’ve spoken to Alexandra for approximately three minutes.”
“Make it the last three.”
Luca held Richard’s gaze. “Does she know?”
Richard went still. “Know what?”
Luca smiled without warmth. “Goodnight, Richard.”
He walked away.
At ten twenty, Sebastian Vale kissed Seraphina Montclair.
It lasted perhaps two seconds. Which was two seconds too long.
Seraphina pushed him away. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sebastian stared at her. They were in his father’s study, the party muffled behind heavy walnut doors.
Unlike the rest of Blackthorn, the room hadn’t been dressed for the evening. Dark bookshelves climbed to the ceiling. An antique globe stood beside the fireplace. A half-finished glass of Richard’s whisky remained on a side table.
Outside, hundreds of people were drinking champagne beneath chandeliers. Inside, Sebastian looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.
“I don’t know.”
“Excellent answer.”
“Sera—”
“No.”
“You followed me.”
“You asked me to come in here.”
“To talk.”
“And apparently you’ve forgotten how talking works.”
Sebastian ran a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have come tonight.”
Seraphina laughed. “This party has five hundred guests.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Sebastian. I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
She stared at him. “Your wife is outside.”
“I know.”
“Your pregnant wife.”
Silence.
Sebastian’s face changed. “What?”
Seraphina realised instantly. “Oh.”
“What did you just say?”
She closed her eyes. “Shit.”
“Amelia’s pregnant?”
“I thought you knew.”
“How do you know?”
“Alex told me.”
“She told you?”
“She was excited.”
Sebastian stepped backwards and sat on the edge of his father’s desk. For a moment he looked completely stunned. Then happy. So genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy that Seraphina felt something inside her break.
“She’s pregnant,” he said.
Seraphina swallowed. “Yes.”
He laughed once under his breath. Then looked at her. The happiness disappeared.
“What are we doing?”
Seraphina picked up her clutch. “Nothing.”
“Sera.”
“Nothing happened.”
“We just—”
“Nothing happened.”
She opened the door. “Congratulations, Sebastian.”
And walked out.
At eleven thirty, the party had changed.
The orchestra was gone. Music rolled across the lawn. The Atlantic had disappeared into darkness beyond the gardens, leaving only the white edge of breaking waves visible beneath the moon.
Candles burned lower. Shoes had begun accumulating beneath tables. People who’d spent dinner discussing markets, elections and charitable foundations were dancing barefoot beside the pool.
Someone had climbed into a fountain. Eleanor had seen them and chosen not to intervene.
Alex had consumed enough champagne to tolerate almost everyone. Almost.
“You like him.”
Theo was beside her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The guy you’ve looked at seven times.”
“I haven’t looked at anyone seven times.”
“Eight now.”
Alex elbowed him.
Across the lawn, Luca was talking to a woman Alex vaguely recognised from somewhere. Beautiful. Of course.
“You’re jealous,” Theo said.
“I’m fascinated by how irritating you are.”
“Eighteen months apart and still no appreciation for my gifts.”
Alex took his drink.
“You keep stealing those.”
“Get another.”
Theo watched her. “So you’re staying?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you left.”
“I travelled.”
“You vanished.”
“I needed space.”
“From what?”
Alex looked toward the ocean. There were things even Theo didn’t know. Things she’d almost told him from Paris. Things she’d decided were easier left on another continent.
“Everything.”
Theo nodded. He didn’t push. That’s why she loved him.
Not like that. Never like that. But perhaps more deeply than she loved almost anyone.
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder. “I missed you.”
Theo looked down at her. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Across the lawn, Luca saw them. And looked away.
At eleven fifty-eight, Eleanor Vale knew something was wrong.
She couldn’t have explained why. Nothing had happened. Nothing visible, anyway.
The party was flawless. The flowers Celeste had chosen were still excessive. Richard was speaking with the governor near the terrace. Alex was laughing with Theo.
Sebastian had finally found Amelia. He was holding both her hands and smiling at her with an expression that told Eleanor exactly what Amelia had wanted to tell him.
Seraphina Montclair was standing alone at the bar.
And Eleanor stood at the edge of the upper terrace, one hand resting on the gold greyhound of her cane, surveying the party she had created.
Blackthorn shimmered behind her. Five hundred guests. Hundreds of candles. Millions of dollars of jewellery. Generations of names. Everyone who mattered. Or believed they did.
Then Eleanor saw him.
Near the edge of the lawn stood a man she hadn’t seen in twenty-nine years.
Matteo Laurent.
The noise of five hundred people disappeared.
He had aged. Of course he had. So had she. Silver now touched his dark hair.
But Eleanor recognised him instantly.
There were some faces time couldn’t disguise.
Matteo lifted his glass. Not a toast. An acknowledgement.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the gold handle of her cane.
She did not move.
Then every phone at Blackthorn began to vibrate.
One after another. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
The sound travelled across the party like insects moving through grass.
People stopped dancing. Conversations broke apart.
A woman near the pool laughed at first, assuming it was some elaborate part of the evening. Then she looked at her screen. And stopped laughing.
Alex pulled her phone from her clutch. Theo checked his. Richard looked down at his screen. Seraphina frowned. Celeste reached for her phone. Sebastian stopped speaking.
Luca didn’t move.
Eleanor already knew.
Somehow, before seeing anything, she knew.
Alex opened the message.
No sender. No words at first. Just a photograph.
Old. Faded. The colours washed pale with time.
Three people stood outside a hotel.
Her father was young. Maybe twenty-six. His shirt was open at the collar. His hair longer than she’d ever seen it. He was smiling.
Beside him stood another young man Alex didn’t recognise.
Between them was a woman.
Beautiful. Dark hair caught by the wind. Barefoot. Laughing at whoever held the camera.
One of Richard’s arms was around her waist. The other man’s hand rested lightly against her shoulder.
Alex stared.
Something about the woman’s face felt familiar. Not because Alex knew her. Because she had seen that face before. Somewhere. Long ago.
She zoomed in.
“Dad?”
Richard Vale looked across the terrace at his daughter.
He had gone completely white.
Alex looked again at the photograph.
Then she saw the message beneath it.
Six words.
“Ask them what happened that night.”
Around her, whispers began.
Someone said Richard’s name. Someone else said Matteo’s.
Alex looked at the photograph again. Then at her father. Then her grandmother.
Eleanor wasn’t looking at the photograph.
She was looking across the lawn.
At Matteo Laurent.
And for the first time in Alexandra Vale’s life…
her grandmother looked afraid.