Four years later

Davina's POV

It was funny how someone could look so familiar and still feel like a stranger.

The high-society blonde beaming at me from the photograph in the news article wasn’t my sister.

She wore too many jewels, smiled too perfectly, held herself too gracefully.

And yet she was. She was Carlotta.

This was the sister who used to do my hair every morning when I obsessed over French braids. Who baked me cookies on the days I was too sick to go outside. Who built blanket ...