Page 47 of Wicked Embers

A truth concealed in shadows deep,

For a duchess’ soul to guard and keep.

A buzzing sound slices through my memories, pulling me back to reality. Shaken, I blink away the tears and realize the sound is coming from the bathroom. Fuck! It’s my phone vibrating. Shit! I must’ve forgotten to hide it in all my excitement over Matriarch Records. I shove the journal back into the drawer and hurry to the bathroom, where the phone buzzes against the marble countertop.

“That was fucking careless,” I mutter, snatching it up. “How am I supposed to pull off a con of the magnitude I’m thinking of if I can’t even remember to hide my damn phone?”

I’m about to turn it off when I see a message from an unknown number flash up:

Hello, Leigh. I was hoping we could meet. We have a lot to talk about and time to catch up on.

My stomach tightens, and my skin prickles.Who the fuck is this?Panic floods my mind. Is it someone my father owes? A debt collector? One of his marks?

Another message pops up:

Don’t worry. I promise I am not someone you ever have to worry about. This isn’t about Mark Dalton. It’s about you!

My heart flips. Could it be someone from the record label?

Are you from Matriarch Records?I type quickly, holding my breath as the typing bubbles appear.

I’m not from Matriarch Records.

My heart sinks.Fuck. It’s someone after my father.I’m about to turn the phone off when another message appears:

I AM Matriarch Records.

“No fucking way,” I whisper, staring at the screen in disbelief. I answer:

Yeah, right, and I’m a princess.

The reply is almost immediate:

Not quite, but close enough. Your grandfather was a duke, and with his passing, your father now holds the title, making you a lady of noble blood, tied to a royal lineage.

Now I know someone’s either screwing with me or setting a trap. My mother was a lounge singer from some small town in England who ran off to Vegas with my father—a man from a long line of con artists and thieves.Royal lineage? Give me a fucking break.

I type back:I think you’ve got the wrong person, buddy, and I really don’t have time for this.

But before I can even blink, another message appears:

This is not a joke. I can help you, Leigh. Remember: Pote min stamatas na ftaneis ton ourano.

The words strike me like a lightning bolt. My heart skips, and fragments of memories swirl in my mind, taunting me from just beyond reach. His words automatically translate in my head:Never stop reaching for the sky!

I stare at the screen as I read the message again, each line gripping me tighter, the Greek words carrying a sense of foreboding yet strange comfort.

Who are you?I type, and every fiber of my being starts to tremble.

The reply comes almost immediately, in Greek:

O enas pou peripata dipla sou stis skiés

O enas pou se prosechei otan eísai pio efpatheis

O enas pou kratas stin kardia sou kai sou dinei dynami otan tin chreiazesai

O enas pou tha edine ti zoi tou gia ti diki sou choris na klepsei oute ena vlemma

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