**The Italian Alps**
The wind howled across the ridge, kicking up sprays of snow that stung Marcus Thorne’s face. He was miles from civilization, following a rumor from a woodcutter in the valley about a woman living alone in an old shepherd’s cabin near the pass.
He saw the structure–a small stone hut with smoke curling from the chimney.
Marcus stumbled to the door, his legs burning with exhaustion. He pounded on the wood with a frozen fist.
“Hello?” he rasped. “Is anyone there?”
The door creaked open.
Warm light spilled onto the snow. A woman stood in the frame. She was wearing a thick wool sweater and her hair was longer, wilder, but the face was unmistakable. The high cheekbones. The eyes that had captivated millions.
It was Victoria Vance.
Marcus fell to his knees, sobbing with relief. “I knew it,” he wept. “I knew you didn’t die. Victoria… oh god, Victoria.”
The woman looked down at him. There was no recognition in her eyes. No spark of the fierce diva who had sung “The Serpent’s Coil.” There was only a polite, vacant curiosity.
“Mi scusi, signore,” she said softly, her Italian flawless. “Non la conosco. Chi รจ ‘Victoria’?” *(Excuse me, sir. I do not know you. Who is ‘Victoria’?)*
Marcus stared up at her, the joy draining out of him as the horror set in. He had found her, but she was gone.