Emma stood completely still in the middle of the bright, sunlit bridal suite, her white lace wedding gown catching the brilliant natural daylight. Her hand, sporting bright red nails, shook violently as she held the old polaroid photo. The image showed two little girls, fair-skinned with matching bright eyes, wearing identical outfits and laughing in a small backyard. It was a photo Emma had kept hidden in her own private childhood diary for years, believing the other girl was just an imaginary friend her mind had created after a traumatic fever.
Victoria: Emma, sweetie, put that garbage down. The photographer is waiting by the garden terrace, and we cannot let a clumsy maid ruin our schedule.
Emma: Mother, stay back. I am speaking to her.
Emma didn't look at her mother. Her eyes were locked onto the young maid, who was still kneeling on the reflective floor, wiping the cold water from her pale face. The red mark from the slap was forming a dark welt on her cheek.
Emma: I asked you a question. Where did you get this photograph?
Elena: It belongs to me, ma'am. It dropped out of my apron pocket when Mrs. Davis pushed me.
Emma: Why do you have it? Who are these children?
Elena looked up through her tears, her face still wet. She looked at Emma's expensive engagement ring, then at the sharp facial features of the bride. A sudden wave of recognition passed through the maid's eyes, replacing the fear with a deep, aching sorrow.
Elena: My little sister... before they took you.
Emma felt the air leave her lungs. She stumbled back a step, her high heels clicking softly against the floor. The world around her seemed to blur, the bright daylight suddenly feeling blinding and harsh.
Emma: What did you just say?
Victoria: This is absolute nonsense! Emma, she is a lying street rat trying to cause a scene at a billionaire family event! Security, get in here right now!
Emma: Quiet, Mother! Don't call security.
Emma turned back to the maid, kneeling down right beside her on the floor, completely unbothered by the water ruining her expensive lace gown. She held the photo between them, her thumb running over the frayed edges.
Emma: Tell me your name. Your real name.
Elena: My name is Elena. Elena Vance. Our mother was Clara Vance.
The name hit Emma like a physical blow. Clara. It was the name that always appeared in her nightmares, a warm voice singing her to sleep before everything went dark and she woke up in a massive mansion surrounded by strangers who told her they were her parents.
Emma: Clara... she used to make star-shaped cookies on Fridays.
Elena's eyes went wide, fresh tears spilling over her wet cheeks as she looked at the bride.
Elena: And she always wrapped them in blue napkins because it was your favorite color. You remember.
Emma: Oh my God. It's you. You're real.
Victoria: Emma, stand up this instant! You are marrying into the most prestigious estate in the state in less than an hour! I will not have you kneeling in the dirt with the help, talking about some poor woman from the slums!
Emma slowly stood up, her face turning into a mask of pure, icy determination. She looked at Victoria, seeing the hidden panic behind her mother's stern, authoritative expression. The woman who had raised her in luxury suddenly looked like a monster.
Emma: You knew. You always knew.