Soren's arm was draped casually across the man's shoulder—the man who looked like my dad—a stunning smile on her beautiful face, with a glass of champagne in her hand.
Heart in my throat, my eyes went over the black inked words scrawled on the bottom of the photo-page in cursive handwriting.
1523. 𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑩𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘 𝑬𝒂𝒅𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚.
Members of the foundation? What foundation? What opening party?
I dropped the book as a cold, tingling migraine began to singe its way through my head.
What the hell were Soren and her brother doing at an event with my ancestors...
A cold feeling draped itself across my shoulders, causing me to shiver as I wrapped my arms around myself.
What did this mean? Soren knew my ancestors? And that means she's been around for what? Over five hundred years?!
