Sebastian’s hand fell from my arm as though the old billionaire’s voice had burned it. Alistair Kensington crossed the marble floor slowly, his eyes never leaving the half-sun pendant at my throat, and then, in front of the board, the investors, the senators, and every executive Sebastian had spent years trying to impress, the seventy-five-year-old titan lowered himself to his knees before me. A gasp moved through the ballroom like wind. His sister Margaret was weeping openly now. “Where did you get this necklace?” Alistair asked, and his commanding voice had gone soft and cracked, the voice of a man who had waited thirty years to ask a single question.

I clutched the pendant on instinct, the way I always did when I felt small, except this time the whole room was watching. “It was clutched in my hand,” I said, “when I was found after a fire, thirty years ago. The woman who raised me told me I had a burn scar on my collarbone.” Alistair’s face crumpled. With trembling hands he reached into his jacket and drew out a chain of his own, and hanging from it was the other half of the sun, the two edges matching like they had been broken from a single piece. “I had this made for my daughter,” he whispered, “before the fire that took her mother and stole her from us. We searched for thirty years. We buried an empty grave.” He looked up at me with tears streaming down his face. “Show me your collarbone, child. Please.”