A few days later, Antonio, the butler who had taken care of me for years, came to me secretly.

He said he had found news of my birth mother.

He said she would be attending a charity gala tonight.

He even showed me a photo. "Miss, the necklace this lady is wearing is a perfect match for the one you have."

That necklace was the only thing I had left of her.

I had memorized its design for thirteen years, dreaming of finding my mother with it.

I had fragmented memories of the day she left me.

When I was seven, my father was brutally killed on the streets, hunted by the mafia for being a police informant.

The killers stormed our home, tearing it apart.

My mother, desperate to protect me, had placed me at the entrance of an orphanage while I was asleep and faced the killers alone.

Every day since, I had worried whether she was alive or dead.

On the night of the gala, I deliberately wore the necklace.

Standing on the second-floor terrace of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, my heart pounded, my eyes constantly scanning the crowd, afraid I'd miss her.

Just then, I saw a familiar silhouette standing by the edge of the terrace.

She was wearing a black evening gown, the pearl necklace at her collar shimmering under the lights, exactly as I remembered.

"Mom?" My voice trembled as my feet moved forward on their own.

My heart hammered with such excitement I didn't even notice someone approaching from behind.

Just as I was about to reach her, I felt a violent shove from behind.

I stumbled forward, crashing right into the woman I believed was my mother.

She screamed and fell backward, her body flipping over the terrace railing.

I scrambled to the edge, watching helplessly as her head hit the marble floor below with a sickening thud.

"Mom!" I screamed, my voice raw and caught in my throat.

I heard the dull crack as her body hit the ground. A moment later, her pearl necklace, broken in two, rolled to my feet.

Isabella's laughter rang out behind me.

"Elara, why so clumsy? Tripping over your own feet?"

"If word of this got out, people might think you did it on purpose."

I whipped around and saw a piece of torn fabric clutched in her hand.

She had torn it from the back of my gown when she pushed me.

She deliberately held the fabric scrap in front of my face and waved it. "My mistake. I guess I got a little too excited."

"You're not mad, are you? It wasn't on purpose, after all. You should have watched where you were going."

I had no time for her and rushed downstairs.

But by the time I got to my mother, she was no longer breathing.

A few doctors were crouching beside her, shaking their heads. "She's gone."

For a moment, the air left my lungs, and I collapsed beside her body.