"ALRIGHT," GRAYSON DRAWLED, "WHAT HAVE WE GOT?"

"A very positive DNA testing," I leaned back, my lollipop a counterpart to the cigarette between his lips, "a treasure trove worth photos of Sarina—who could very well be me—and you brothers in a chest, and an anagram of the saying my sociopath of a father loved; being my last name and her first."

"Quite a lot, then."

"Not really. Physical evidence may well be present," The room was filled with a blissful smoky scent, "But have we considered the fact that none of you had memories of the girl's face up until the photos were shown? Also, Sarina being a Salvatore could not necessarily mean that she is me."

Grayson dragged in a deep breath, then a river of smoke slithered from his lips. Oh to be a cigarette. "Familiar relations?"

"Pronto," the simple snap of my finger rang hypnotically in the dizzy lit room, "Ever heard of long lost twin sisters?"

God, that deep, rumbling laugh would've brought me to my knees. Maybe I wouldn't mind it. 

"Let's see," He held out a hand, twitching two fingers towards him. My call to answer. His head leaned back leisurely, eyes lidded and glazed in the smoky atmosphere of the room. I wondered if this was what black and white movies felt like. Irresistible. "Do you have any memories of a gorgeous," Electric sparks flew across my skin as his fingers wrapped around my wrist.
Tugging me so close, the air left my lungs in a hurry. "magnificent, beautiful twin sister who was exactly like you?"

"Hmm," I held my chin, feigning thoughtfulness, "hard to tell."

"True, for there can't be anyone else like you, my darling."

Blush blossomed on my cheeks, my eyes rolling, "Chessy."

"Only for you."

"Alright, alright, Romeo," My hands held me up, resting on either side of his head, on the expensively luxurious armchair, "But then comes the real question," I couldn't hold myself back from brushing our noses, "what did Salvatore want with Tobias Hawthorne? How come his daughter was raised and brought up with you all? Do you think Salvatore has her body?"

"Real questions, plural, dove," I hated how much that gentle grab on my sides made my heart flutter. And I loved it anyway. "For the first two, I admit, I do not know," How close did the man want me? Pulling me more. "For the third, I believe I have a theory."

The flat of his palm sneaked up my shirt and ran across the flesh of my back. Every scar buzzing to life under his touch. Shivers ran marathons down my spine. And of course, out of all places, he hand to still his hand on my side. The very sensitive ribs. 

"Salvatore could not have her body, my dearest," my heart went overdrive when he sat me on his lap, tucking my legs on either side of his thighs. He knew damn well what his affection was doing to me.

"Why not?" My voice was still and calm, nothing like the gushing blood in my veins.'

"Because I do, right here." 

The audacity to smirk as his hand pat my lower back almost made me realize why I hated this man in the first place.

"You little—" I cut myself off with giggles and squeals. Well, now I knew Mr. Hawthorne's fingers had many innocent dangers as well. 

The laughter died only as his mouth pressed against mine.

I could get used to this.

Kissing a Hawthorne was something magical. Running your hand through his artistically comber, fine silk, golden hair, tilting his head so your souls would merge through your mouths, wrapping your free arm around his shoulders as by complete instinct you sit up, hovering slightly, chasing for those perfect lips. Fair to say, I loved kissing Grayson Davenport Hawthorne.

Now I adored music. And my favourite piece had to be the gasp Grayson would take in as I bit his lips to break the kiss. Only for the man to come running back into another. 

"Sweetness..." He breathed out as we finally parted for overrated air. My lips curled up at the sight of the lolli in his mouth. The cigarette long forgotten in its tray.

"The candy, or...?"

Another round of giggles as he pinched my sides as I placed the lolli beside the smoker on the tray. "Brat."

"Oh like you're the one to talk, Pretty Boy."

He hummed, clinging onto me. His nose against my neck ensured me that he took in my scent as if the world's most beautiful cologne. The silence needed not to be filled. Comfortable.

"Grayson?" I called, my voice suddenly softer. That made him adorably peak up at me from his little hiding place in the crook of my neck. He offered me a loving hum in response.
"Do you really believe that I may be..." his everything, "Sarina?"

"I do." Nothing more. Just two words that were firmer than any chains on the planet, honest as any child learning their first word. Just two words that told me all that was going on in his head.

"And what if I'm not?"

"Then it won't change a thing, my dearest." He brought his lips gingerly to my neck.
"It won't change a thing."

·······•✦•······

"How the fuck do I own a NFL team?!"

Alisa Ortega, my lawyer who was almost not my lawyer but got forgiven because I got into way to much chaos for her paycheck, arched her brow in what I coined as the term: Alisa look. "Mind you, you also own two private jets, a polo club, three ranches and almost half of the shares of three luxury car brands."

I think I never could get used to this.

"But, more importantly, you have the game to attend."

"The game," I repeated, unsure which game she was talking about. I felt like I'd been playing since the moment I'd first stepped through the door of Hawthorne House.

"The football game," Alisa clarified, with another Alisa Look. "Part two of your debut into Texas society. With Skye's exit from Hawthorne House, appearances are more important than ever. We need to control the narrative. This is a Cinderella story, not a scandal—and that means that you need to play Cinderella. In public. As frequently and convincingly as possible, starting with making use of your owner's box tonight."

I did not have enough brain power to wonder what an owner's box was. I was hoping Avery would cover me in that. Avery. Her name felt sour in my mind, and that terrified me. I loved my sisters to the ends of the universe and back. I loved her as much as I hated her back and forth with the Hawthornes, leading to... whatever was between me and Grayson to never going further.

Not a problem to worry about now.

"There are forty-eight seats in the owner's suite," Alisa said, going into lecture mode. "A general seat map is created months in advance. VIPs only. This isn't just football; it's a way of buying a seat at a dozen different tables. Invites are highly sought after by just about everyone—politicians, celebrities, CEOs. I've had Oren vet everyone on the list for tonight, and we'll have a professional photographer on hand for some strategic photo opportunities. Landon has crafted a press release that will go out an hour before the game. Avery is all ready with her training. All that's left to worry about is..."

Alisa trailed off delicately.

I snorted. "Me?"

"This is a Cinderella story," Alisa reminded me. "What do you think Cinderella would wear to her first NFL game?"

"I don't suppose glass football shoes?"

"Something like this?" Libby popped into the doorway. She was wearing a Lone Stars jersey with a matching scarf, matching gloves, and matching boots. Her blue hair was tied into pigtails with a thick bunch of blue and gold ribbons.

Alisa forced a smile. "Yes," she told me. "Something like that—minus the black lipstick, the black nail polish, and the choker." Libby was pretty much the world's most cheerful goth, and Alisa was not a fan of my sister's sense of fashion. "As I was saying," Alisa continued emphatically, "tonight is important. While Avery and Arlene play Cinderella for the cameras, I'll circulate among our guests and get a better sense of where they stand."

"Where they stand on what?" I blinked. Me and Ave had been told from time to time again that the Hawthorne will was iron clad. I'm guessing the family—Pretty Boy, most prominently—gave up on challenging it. 

"It never hurts to have a few extra power players in your corner," Alisa said. "And we want our allies breathing easy."

"Hope I'm not interrupting." Nash barged in, tipping his hat. I groaned as he smacked his large hand on my head, ruffling my hair completely. "Go on, Lee-Lee," he told my lawyer. "You were sayin' something about breathing easy?"

"We need people to know that the Grambs sisters aren't here to shake things up." Alisa avoided looking directly at Nash, like a person avoiding looking into the sun. "Your grandfather had investments, business partners, political relationships—these things require a careful balance."

"What she means when she says that," Nash told me, "is that she needs people to think that McNamara, Ortega, and Jones has the situation entirely under control." The situation? I thought. Or me? I didn't relish the idea of being anyone's puppet. In theory, at least, the firm was supposed to work for me.

That gave me an idea. "Alisa? Do you remember when I asked you to get money to a friend of mine?"

"Harry, wasn't it?" Alisa replied, but I got the distinct feeling that her attention was divided three ways: between my question, her grand plans for the night, and the way Nash's lips ticked upward on the ends when he saw Libby's outfit.

The last thing I needed my lawyer focused on was the way that her ex was looking at my sister. "Yes. Were you able to get the money to him?" I may have been mad at Avery for her avoidance of choosing, but that didn't mean I wouldn't help her out in her game. I had a guilty pleasure for games. 

Alisa tore her eyes away from Libby and Nash. "Unfortunately," she said briskly, "my people have been unable to find a trace of your Harry."

I knew her heart wasn't into her words. I kept it in me to politely suggest that I give this work load to Valerie as well. 

Soon everyone was dismissed. Just as the oldest Hawthorne was about to follow the oldest Grambs out of the door, I caught him by the back of his shirt. Pulling him back and down so I could whisper in his ears. 

"Libby likes plushies. The fluffy, bedazzled, big-eyed, kind."

I let Nash decide what he would do with that little insider tea.

·······•✦•······

I had never seen a game of football in my life, but as the new owner of the Texas Lone Stars, I couldn't exactly say that to the crowd of reporters who mobbed the SUV when we pulled up to the stadium, any more than I could have admitted that the v-neck jersey, blue bandana that hid more than just my battle scars; courtesy of a certain Hawthorne, the knee-high, spike-rimmed combat boots and the gemmed cowboy hatI was wearing felt about as authentic as a Halloween costume. But, I guess the dutch braids did it some justice.

Avery, beside me, was wearing pretty much the same thing, just no braids and cowboy hats. And her jersey was much more liberal when compared to mine.

"Lower the window," Alisa told me, "smile, and yell, 'Go, Lone Stars!'" I didn't want to lower the window. I didn't want to smile. I didn't want to yell anything—and I didn't. Because this was a Cinderella story, and I was not ready to be the star. So I did what any good elder sister would do.

I doubled it and gave it to the next person. Avery was the next person.

"Avery! Arlene!""Avery, look over here!"
"Arlene, in the camera!""How are you feeling about your first game as the new owner?""Do you have any comments about reports that you assaulted Skye Hawthorne?"
"Is it true that you are actually affiliated with the Red Stage?"

"Was the girl in the video Sarina Salva? Can you confirm the video is authentic?"
"What do you think about the rumor you are Salvatore's relative?"

Lies, lies, lies and more lies. Well, accept for the last three, anyway. I don't know what I—as Sarina or not—was raised with, but surely the Stage gave me enough media training for undercover missions to know that whenever faced with a tsunami of rapid fire questions, keep your mouth shut.

Don't say anything aside from what you want them to think.

I channelled in my brightest smile, my roundest eyes and my friendliest lie. I stayed silent, pretty much begging my reflexes not to cringe when Avery yelled in a high pitch (that cracked), "Go Lone Stars!". I think I did good enough not to.
Now to make her remember this moment for the next fifty two years. Repeatedly.

I went to roll up my window, but just as my finger brushed the button, a figure pulled away from the crowd. Not a reporter.

My 'father'. Or so whom I believed was before I got my memories back.

Ricky Grambs had spent a lifetime treating me and my sisters like an afterthought, if that. I hadn't seen him in more than a year. But now that I'd inherited billions? There he was.

And he certainly didn't look happy with the Salvatore rumors. Me not denying them, specifically.

Turning away from him—and the paparazzi—I rolled my window up. "Ave, Leena?" Libby's voice was hesitant as our bulletproof SUV disappeared into a private parking garage beneath the stadium. My sister was an optimist. She believed the best of people—including a man who'd neverdone a damn thing for either one of us.

"Did you know he'd be here?" Avery asked her, her voice low.

"No!" Libby said. "I swear!" Then her eyes met mine. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, smudging her black lipstick. "But he just wants to talk."

"Oh, of course, he does." It wasn't Libby's fault my greedy ass foster father showed up when he wasn't invited in my life. But hey, I've been through enough shit to get a little bitter pass.

Up in the driver's seat, Oren, my head of security and the man who saved my life countless times enough for me to trust him blindly (despite having a phase of not wanting to), parked the SUV and spoke calmly into his earpiece. "We have a situation near the north entrance. Eyes only, but I want a full report."

The nice thing about being a billionaire with a security team brimming with retired Special Forces was that the chances of my being ambushed again were next to none. I shoved down the feelings that seeing Ricky had dredged up and stepped out of the car into the bowels of one of the biggest stadiums in the world. "Let's do this," I said.

"For the record," Alisa told me as she exited the car, "the firm is more than capable of handling your father."

And that was the nice thing about being the sole client of a multi-billion dollar law firm.

"And I am more than capable of handling your 'father'," Val smiled, her fingers twitching in air quotes on the last word. A not-so-nice nice thing about having your assistant be your murderous mother figure from the past.

"Appreciated, but no thank you." Alisa can only cover up so many bodies buried.
"Are you okay?" Alisa pressed. She wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. More likely she was trying to assess whether I would be a liability tonight.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Why wouldn't she be?"That voice—low and smooth—came from an elevator behind me. For the first time since after this afternoon, I turned to look directly at Grayson Hawthorne. Those same pale, breathtaking eyes, fair hair so soft and silky it made the finest sarees of India feel lower in quality, and those cheekbones that could definitely pose as weapons but so perfect as I remembered kissing them. Stupid Pretty Boy.

"Why," he repeated crisply, stepping out of the elevator, "would Arlene be anything other than fine?"

If he thought I didn't catch the way his lips slightly twitched up when glancing at me, I was secretly a turtle in disguise.

"Deadbeat dad made an appearance outside," I muttered, patting Avery's head. "It's fine."

Grayson stared at me, his eyes piercing mine, then turned to Oren. "Is he a threat?"

I'll always protect you, he'd sworn. A Hawthorne always keeps promises. 

And a Grambs always keeps grudges; so Avery's snappy tone would say. "We don't need you to protect us," She practically spat at him. "When it comes to Ricky, we're experts at protecting ourselves." Ave stalked past Grayson, into the elevator he'd stepped out of a moment earlier.

Well that elevated quickly. 

The silence was awkward, only to be sliced by my low, long whistle. "What did you do, open a can of worms and dump it straight into her lap?"

"Bold of you to assume I would be anywhere near annelids, love," Grayson said flatly, his expression weary, as if aged a decade and back in a second. He held out an arm for me.

"No? But you've certainly been near another Grambs, haven't you?" I snaked my arm around his fore, walking into the elevator alongside him. "You do realise that I'm going to find out one way or another, don't ya, Hawthorne?"

"Yes, my dear," He sighed, inclining ever so slightly towards my direction, "I can't tell you exactly all that happened, but you could say your sister and I had a very... heartfelt altercation."

"English, Hawthorne."

The sky-eyed man rolled those pretty crystals, "Impossible, you are."

"You love it."

That, he didn't deny.

·······•✦•······

The owner's suite had a perfect view of the fifty-yard line, but an hour before kickoff, no one was looking at the field. The suite extended back and widened, and the farther you got from the seats, the more it looked like an upscale bar or club. Tonight, I was the entertainment—an oddity, a curiosity, a paper doll dressed up just so. For what felt like an eternity, I shook hands, posed for photographers, and pretended to understand football jokes. I managed not to gawk at a pop star, a former vice president, and a tech giant who probably made more money in the time it took him to urinate than most people made in a lifetime.

My brain pretty much stopped functioning when I heard the phrase "Her Highness" and realized there was actual royalty in attendance. And the fact that actual American Royalty still existed.

Pretty Boy chose to be extra dazzling pain in the backside and held me close, forcing me to meet every single one of my attendants, and his. 

"Alright, Hawthorne, have mercy already," I whined as softly as I could. My legs were jelly on calcium now. "I can't do this anymore!"

Before Grayson could offer  me a posh retort, someone beat him to it with a dirty one.

"Oh, he must love hearing you beg." 

My side-eye only vanished when I recognized who said the crude remark, "Kezia?" I blinked, recognizing the god-gifted beauty instantly. Her chocolatey brown hair, skin and mesmerizing eyes were as ethereal as the first time I met her. Her body was the perfect shape and height, her nose was plastic-surgery worthy sculpted and her cheeks were round yet defined.

She was gorgeous. So much so that it terrified me for a moment. 

Unnatural. I recalled the feeling when we were at the ball. I recalled wanting to fall to my knees in front of a maiden like her. A knight for a princess. And then I remembered a cut on my leg.

My nails slit my skin.
Suddenly she didn't look so petrifyingly pretty anymore.

"Leena, you there?"
Come to think of it, her voice was familiar. As if I knew her from way before. One thing came to mind: The