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My sister was standing at the altar in a white satin wedding gown when the woman everyone believed was dead walked through the ballroom doors. It was the kind of wedding where every detail had been planned to perfection, from the crystal chandeliers to the emerald necklace at Juliette Mercer’s throat, but none of that mattered once the cold air swept into the Saint Aurelia Ballroom carrying the smell of burnt flesh, hospital linen, and old ash. And when I saw Juliette’s face turn white, I understood that this woman had not come here by accident.