Night had already settled fully over the Grant mansion. In the garden, under trees bathed in amber light, round tables draped in linen gleamed amid the comings and goings of waiters and nervous whispers.
The dinner, meant to be an event of philanthropy and elegance, had become, for the guests, a minefield of scandals in the open air.
Between sips of wine and distracted bites, sharp voices speculated: "Has Alex lost his mind?" "A bastard daughter, now? Out of nowhere?" "In the end, these millionaire heirs are all the same — they might pretend to be upright and devoted to family, but they're all corrupt and perverted!"
While conversations buzzed into the night, Sophie appeared again at the top of the terrace stairs, gazing enigmatically at those present. Her hair was now up in a messy bun, her expression firm but so pale she seemed a beautiful ghost floating between past and present.
Alex's watchful eyes shone with relief masked as pride. He immediately stood and walked over to her, meeting her halfway in the garden.
"I thought you'd decided to run away and give up, Flora," he said softly, a brief, grave smile brightening his face.
"I had…" she replied. "But you're going to pay for my son's treatment now, so I'll make this sacrifice. For him, not for you!"
"That's how you should talk."
With studied elegance, Alex took her arm and together they moved from table to table, greeting the guests: tanned bankers, bare-shouldered socialites, golden daughters of New York dynasties.
Sophie was cordial and gracious, talking about the garden's flowers, the importance of the cause, exchanging quick compliments — but not everyone reciprocated: some stared at her with a mix of judgment and disdain, others didn't even smile, as if she were a piece out of place on the board.
Her presence, so improbable, was read as both scandal and threat, and Sophie picked up on every nuance — the way older women clutched their pearls to their throats, or men changed the subject when she drew near.
Finally, they sat at the main table: Veronica, majestic and icy; Daniel, eyes hard; Eloise, confused; the Davenports, attentive; and Alex smiling at everyone as if he were the master of ceremonies at his own shipwreck.
As they dined and made small talk, Veronica — flawless as ever — attacked Sophie with her velveted voice:
"So, Flora, tell us… where was your mother from again? You mentioned you were raised outside New York, didn't you? What's the name of the city?"
"Herald Peaks, in the state of Colorado," Sophie answered without hesitation. "She worked for a while as a secretary in Grant Yachts' administration, but didn't adjust to the city and preferred to return…"
Veronica set down her fork, her face leaning in closer, words sharpening.
"That's strange, I never heard of any Sanders in the admin. Was she close to anyone on the board? Of course, other than being very close to my husband!"
Sophie felt her heart race, but smiled cordially, like someone who had practiced the lie a thousand times.
"My mother was very reserved. She always said New York wasn't for her… And as for the surname, Sanders was her married name, so when she worked here she probably still used her maiden name."
Veronica raised her eyebrows, giving that smile of someone smelling blood in the water.
"And your father? I mean, not Alex… I'm asking if you ever had a legal father, you know, a father figure."
Sophie tilted her head slightly. She remembered her biological father, a man of such integrity, and used that memory to give weight to her lie.
"My father was an exceptional man, Mrs. Grant, and… even though we didn't share blood, for me he was the best father anyone could have had, until his death." Sophie took a sip of water after saying this, feeling sick for lying so much. It was like standing before the Inquisition.
Throughout the conversation, Daniel remained silent, his eyes flickering between Sophie and his plate, while Eloise looked away toward the garden, insecure with this new female presence.
At least for now, Veronica tired of so many questions and the night carried on. Toasts multiplied, the charity auction was announced. The auctioneer, with a vibrant voice, presented jewels, paintings, and luxury experiences, while guests raised bids with the ease of those who do not fear tomorrow.
Sophie took advantage of the commotion to slip away discreetly.
"Excuse me," she whispered, heading into the house and up to the second-floor restroom. The silence of the corridor was a relief. She splashed cold water on her face, breathing deeply as she felt the Flora mask slipping down the drain, revealing, for an instant, Sophie: fragile and exhausted, alone at last.
When she left the bathroom, she ran straight into Daniel, leaning against the wall, his entire body tense.
"What are you doing here, Sophie?" his voice was a mix of incredulity and contained anger.
She stopped, her gaze clear.
"My name's not Sophie, Mr. Grant. You must be mistaken, I'm Flora Sanders, remember?"
Daniel stepped closer, his eyes burning on his handsome face.
"Cut it out, I'm not an idiot! Lying won't work with me. I know who you are, I just don't know what you want, or why you're pretending — but if you don't tell everyone, I will."
She met his gaze, her smile pure cynicism, almost an affectionate challenge:
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Flora Sanders. But... if you want to make a scene about it, go ahead!"
Trying to escape immediately, Sophie said that and tried to leave. However, Daniel grabbed her by the arms, firmly but not roughly — as if trying to wake someone from a trance.
"You're messing with the wrong person, you know that. What are you doing here, huh? What's your game?"
She didn't answer. The hallway seemed to shrink around them, the light from the wall sconce throwing shadows across his face. For a second, Daniel looked at the woman before him as if he didn't recognize her — then as if only now he realized he'd never forgotten her.
And then, obeying a desperate impulse, Daniel kissed her.