The screens lit up with the covers of The Silverwood Chronicles.
Five books.
Millions sold.
Thirty-seven languages.
The anonymous author the entire publishing world was looking for.
Then Oliver looked toward the back of the ballroom and began the sentence my family had tried to make impossible for ten years.
Part 3
“…And tonight,” Oliver Reed’s voice echoed through the high-ceilinged hall, amplified by speakers that made each syllable sound weighty and absolute, “we don’t just honor a book. We honor a voice that chose truth over noise, a writer who built an empire in silence.”
The heavy mahogany doors at the far end of the room didn't open with a bang. They slid smoothly and silently on polished brass tracks.
I stepped out into the light.
I was no longer wearing the wrinkled, flowing black dress. I wore an elegant, long, ice-blue silk gown with clean, architectural lines; I wore no flashy jewelry, except for the simple silver ring my grandmother Clara had given me for my eighteenth birthday. My hair was swept back in a defined, unyielding style.
The ballroom was packed with two hundred members of Boston's elite: publishing magnates, literary critics, board members, and my family.
As I walked down the central aisle, the room opened up like water around the hull of a ship. Low, electric whispers filled the air. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye, I sensed the exact moment Eleanor and Natalie noticed me.
My mother was half-slouching over table three, her white knuckles pressed against the pristine white tablecloth. Her eyes were wide and tense, scrutinizing my face as if searching for a ghost or an imposter. Beside her, Natalie looked as if her Cartier bracelet had been ripped off and she'd been left exposed to a draft of winter air. Her mouth was slightly open and her breathing was ragged.
