All breathtaking, but somewhat dated. Gemma, a student of the history of jewelry as well as its creation, had noted that Pavlin & Co had long since stopped innovating. They were coasting on their name, on people’s perception of luxury and quality. But Gemma knew times were changing, and the Pavlins’ laziness would make her job of outshining them that much easier.

Still, there was one piece Gemma’s modern creations could never compete with: the Electric Rose. But as she moved from case to case, a feeling of unease came over her as she approached the end of the exhibit.

Her mother’s engagement ring was not there.

Elodie, dressed in a custom emerald green St. John dress, greeted the press and felt like a bride on her wedding day. Or, at least, what she imagined a bride to feel like. Despite being the heiress to a fortune built on diamond engagement rings, neither Elodie nor her older sister, Celeste, had ever married. The irony had not escaped the notice of gossip columnists over the decades.

The media assembled before her now were of a different generation; aside from a few familiar faces from The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, she doubted any of them remembered when more ink was spilled on the glamorous Pavlin sisters than on Pavlin & Co itself.

“I’m delighted to welcome you here tonight on such an auspicious occasion, and I know my parents would be touched to see such an enthusiastic celebration of our one hundred years on Fifth Avenue. Since opening these doors a century ago, Pavlin & Co has become one of the most sought-after retail destinations in the world . . .”

Elodie moved through her speech, adrenalized by the camera flashes and the anticipation of fielding questions about each of the eighty heirloom pieces on display. The press had been given a walk-through in advance of the party guests’ arrival, and their appreciative sighs and murmurs had fueled her like a drug.

Elodie’s publicist gave her the signal that it was time for the Q and A.

“I’ll take a few questions,” Elodie said. The first hand that shot up belonged to a young woman in a black dress. Elodie pointed to her and nodded, an alarm bell sounding deep inside as she noted there was something eerily familiar about the beautiful blonde.

“Why isn’t the most famous piece in the Pavlin collection included in the exhibit?” the woman said. “Where’s the Electric Rose?”

Elodie felt the blood drain from her face, her heart pounding as recognition materialized: That woman was her niece, Gemma. Every nerve in her body wanted to summon security, to have the interloper thrown out. Instead, she smiled calmly.

“The Electric Rose has not been shown in public since the death of its owner,” Elodie said. “Nor will it be.”