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Damian’s hand closed around mine. His brow was furrowed. In the reflection of his dark eyes, I saw that my own face was streaked with tears.
“I did the test to make it easier to explain things to you,” he said, his thumb wiping at my cheek. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“Tell me why,” I pleaded, my voice breaking.
On Damian’s face, usually as cold and perfect as carved jade, there was now a profound sadness. He clutc hed my wrist and said softly, “In this world, some things are real, but many more are fake.”
“You’re not Rachel Sterling,” he said. “That’s not your name.”
“Eighteen years ago, we met on the West Coast. You told me your mother’s surname was Shen. I took part of
my own name and gave you a new one.”
He said, “Your name is Rhea.”
