“Faster, Dominic!” Marcus yelled from the backseat.
The car weaved through the gridlocked Manhattan traffic, sirens wailing in the distance. Beside him, Victoria–still believing she was “Elena”–was hyperventilating.
“Where are we going?” she cried, pulling at her seatbelt. “Why are we running toward the city?”
“To the Conservatory,” Marcus said, checking his watch. “We have to get there before the ceremony ends.”
“The Conservatory?” Elena’s eyes widened. A flash of memory–sharp and painful–struck her. “I… I know that name. Why do I know that name?”
“Because you built it,” Marcus said, finally letting a crack show in the wall of lies he had built to protect her.
Victoria stared at him, the “Imposter Syndrome” warring with a terrifying sense of familiarity. She looked out the window at the skyline she shouldn’t recognize but did. They were racing against time, carrying a ghost to a wedding.