The knock at the door startled me. It was mid-morning, the penthouse unusually quiet except for the faint sound of traffic far below. A maid entered carrying a long, rectangular box tied neatly with silver ribbon.

“Delivery, Mrs. Reynolds,” she murmured, setting it gently on the console by the window before bowing out.

I frowned. I hadn’t ordered anything. My name—Mrs. Reynolds—still didn’t fit when people spoke it aloud. I tugged the ribbon loose, the silk sliding through my ...