Revealing My Secret Identities! My Bros Are Speechless!

Journey Cobb sat in the back of the town car, the leather cool against her thighs, her fingers tracing the sharp edge of the envelope in her lap.

Outside, the manicured streets of the Upper East Side blurred into a stream of grey and beige, but Journey wasn't looking at the city. She was looking at the seal on the envelope.

She didn't need to open it again. The number was burned into her retina. Zero percent.

Zero percent match.

A normal person might have felt their stomach drop. They might have felt the bile rise in their throat at the realization that their entire life was a lie. But Journey felt her shoulders drop an inch, the tension that had lived in her trapezius muscles for two decades finally dissolving.

It was over. The performance was finally over.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She slipped her hand into the hidden pocket of her Hermès Birkin bag, glancing down.

Luna, the Grammy nomination list is confirmed.

She swiped the notification away, her face a mask of practiced indifference. She slid the phone deeper into the bag, burying the identity of the music industry's most elusive producer under a pack of tissues and a compact mirror.

The car crunched over the gravel of the Kensington estate driveway. The sound was like bones breaking.

Higgins was waiting at the door. The older butler stood with his hands clasped, his posture rigid. As Journey stepped out of the car, ignoring the driver's outstretched hand, she caught Higgins' eyes. They weren't blank today. They were wet. Pitying.

"Miss Journey," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Mr. and Mrs. Kensington are in the drawing room. And... the guest."

The guest. Alleen. The girl who shared the Kensington blood.

Journey nodded, the movement barely disturbing the air. She walked up the limestone steps, her heels clicking a rhythm that sounded like a countdown.

Inside, the foyer was cold. It always was. A cheap nylon duffel bag sat on the marble floor near the coat rack, looking like a bruise on perfect skin.

Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, hurried past with a silver tray. She didn't look up. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor tiles, as if Journey had already ceased to exist.

Journey paused in front of the gilded mirror that dominated the hallway. She smoothed a stray hair, checking her reflection. She didn't look like a girl whose life was imploding. She looked like a Kensington. Cool. Detached. Expensive.

She took a breath. It wasn't to steady herself. It was to suppress the laugh bubbling in her chest.

She pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The hinges groaned, a sound that echoed in the cavernous silence of the house.

The air in the drawing room was thick, suffocating. It smelled of beeswax and old money.

Victoria Kensington sat on the velvet sofa, a lace handkerchief pressed to the corner of her eye. She looked tragic, in the way actresses look tragic in silent films. Preston Kensington stood by the fireplace, his back straight, radiating a disapproval that lowered the room temperature by ten degrees.

And there, on the edge of the other sofa, sat Alleen.

She was wearing a floral dress that was two sizes too small and a season out of date. Her posture was hunched, making her look smaller, more fragile. When Journey entered, Alleen flinched. It was a violent, jerky movement, like a dog expecting a kick.

Journey walked to the empty armchair. She sat down, crossing her ankles, her spine not touching the back of the chair.

"Journey," Preston said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a summons.

"Father," she said, out of habit. Then she corrected herself. "Preston."

Victoria let out a small, strangled sob. She reached out and patted Alleen's knee. The gesture was stiff, awkward.

Alleen looked up at Journey. Her eyes were red-rimmed, wet with tears. But beneath the water, Journey saw it. A spark. A flash of pure, unadulterated hunger.

Preston cleared his throat. He reached for a manila folder on the coffee table and slid it across the polished wood. It stopped inches from Journey's hand.

"The paperwork," Preston said.

Journey looked at the folder. It was her exit visa. It was the key to the cage.