It'd been six years since my family forced me to divorce my husband Rowan Shelby for the sake of Brielle Alder, the girl who had stolen my life.

When I was sketching in the park, I saw Rowan and my brother, Clayton Alder, heading my way.

Rowan sat before my easel, watching the caricature take shape under my charcoal.

The sharp, aggressive edge he used to carry was gone; he looked softer, holding my seven-year-old daughter Mia Shelby on his lap.

After dropping four crumpled bills in my coin box, he asked, "Why didn't you let me know you were back from abroad?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted.

Behind his glasses, his eyes held a heavy, complicated melancholy.

"I never wanted to drive you away, Nadia."

I adjusted my grip on the palette, keeping my voice flat and professional.

"Sir, do you have a preferred style for the portrait?"

I treated them like strangers, but Clayton was as hot-tempered as ever.

He kicked the leg of my easel, his eyes bright with mockery.

"Cut the act. Brie's already forgiven you for the miscarriage.

"But now a scandal broke, branding her a homewrecker, and it's going to cost her that gold medal.

"You clear her name, and I'll let you come home.

"You haven't seen Mia in six years. Bet you miss her like crazy, right?

"After all, you once stood outside the manor for ninety-nine days begging for custody."

He loomed over me.

But Mia had long forgotten she ever called me Mom.

She stared at the loose bandage on my wrist with pure disgust.

"Daddy, Uncle Clayton, look at her ugly hand.

"It's gross. Auntie Brie's hands are way prettier."

The memory of my hand being crushed years ago flared in my mind. I pressed my lips together and retied the bandage.

"I'm not going back, and I won't clear her name.

"As for Mia—I gave her up a long time ago."

The days of silently enduring the abuse were dead and buried.

***

Rowan stared at all the scars peeking out from the gauze.

He stepped closer, like he wanted to reach out.

"Alright, Dia, don't be difficult.

"And don't say things like that about Mia. You brought her into this world. She's your treasure."

A surge of bitterness rose in my throat.

Bringing her into this world meant nothing compared to Brielle's sweet lies.

Clayton frowned and kicked over my coin box, his tone full of impatience.

"Why are you wasting breath on her? Just grab her.

"If we weren't worried about the scandal ruining Brie's chances, I wouldn't have set foot in this dump.

"It's filthy."

Clayton had always been arrogant, wearing that specific kind of entitlement that only came with old money.

I bent down to pick my box out of a puddle, keeping my voice steady.

"I said I'm not going back."

That set Clayton off. He snapped, his harsh words shattering my heart.

"Don't be ungrateful, Nadia. Is there some man keeping you here?

"You barely make any money—I don't believe you can handle actual hardship. What, selling your body now just to get by?"

Rowan's expression darkened, like he actually believed it.

He grabbed my wrist and started dragging me toward the park exit.

Sharp pain shot up my arm.

The coin box hit the ground again, scattering my few dollar bills.

"Rowan, let go of me! I'm not going with you!"

He ignored my protest.

Clayton strode ahead, stomping the fallen bills deep into the mud.

"Meow!"

An orange streak darted out from the bushes, claws extended, and slashed at Rowan's arm.

I seized the moment to break free.

But before I could run, Clayton kicked the back of my knees, sending me crashing to the ground.

In the same motion, he kicked the kitten, sending it flying several meters away.

I struggled to get up, tears hitting the dirt.

"Tilly!"

I made it one step before Rowan and Clayton grabbed me back.

They dragged me forward, and fighting them was useless.

My stray cat lay in a pool of blood.

The money I'd been saving for a grave plot lay in the mud.

Then they shoved me into the back of the familiar SUV, just like they had done six years ago.

Mia, strapped into her booster seat, started screaming the moment I landed next to her.

"Daddy! I don't want to sit next to this ugly monster! She stinks!"

Rowan glanced in the rearview mirror, putting on a stern face as he lectured her.

"Mia, don't be rude. She's your mom."

Mia wrinkled her nose.

"She's not my mom," she muttered, just loud enough for the whole car to hear. "Only Auntie Brie is good enough to be my mom."

Clayton scoffed at me.

Rowan's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he offered a weak excuse.

"Mia just doesn't know you very well. It'll get better once you spend time together."

I turned to look out the window, my voice hollow.

"It's fine. I'm not her mother anyway. Isn't that what you told me?"

Six years ago, in this very car, when Mia was barely one, Rowan had said those exact words.

"Nadia, look at yourself. Do you really think you're fit to be a mother?

"Mia is a baby; she doesn't know any better. If she wants to call Brie 'Mom,' let her. Why are you making such a scene in front of her?"

The memory of Rowan's angry face flashed through my mind.

The drive home passed in total silence.

The house, which I'd once decorated with such meticulous care, now looked like a stranger's place.

The wild roses were gone, paved over and replaced by sterile, manicured rows of standard blooms.

The old tree and its tire swing had been hacked down.

I swept a cold look over the grounds, feeling the erasure settle in my gut, then lowered my head and followed them inside.

Rowan opened the door to a cramped room in the back corner. The air was thick with dust, cobwebs strung up in the shadows.

He coughed into his fist, waving a hand to clear the space.

"We turned your old bedroom into a piano studio for Brie. You'll have to make do with this for now.

"Later on, we can—"

"Don't bother," I cut in. "This is fine."

I was dying anyway.

The thread count of the sheets didn't matter much when a deadline was looming.

Clayton hated the lack of reaction. To him, my acceptance was just another performance—a way to make them look like the bad guys.

He rolled his eyes, letting out a sharp, cold scoff.

"Rowie, if she wants to rot in here, let her. All these years and she still hasn't dropped that stuck-up attitude."

Rowan sighed, heavy and tired, but didn't push back.

"Fine. Stay here if you want."

I mumbled something resembling a yes and shut the door.

I couldn't read the expression in Rowan's eyes, and honestly, I didn't want to.

He was the one who had shipped me out of the country years ago—why look guilty now?

It didn't track, so I stopped trying to solve it.

My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the narrow twin bed. Pain, sharp and familiar, tore through me.

The color drained from my face as a cold sweat soaked into the pillow.

A sharp knock on the door pulled me back to the surface.

I forced myself up and opened it to find Clayton.

He was holding a thin, cheap blanket.

"Who exactly are you trying to manipulate with this tragic act?"

When he saw how pale I was, the insult slipped out automatically.

He tossed the blanket at my feet.

"Here. I don't want you getting sick and making Brie feel guilty about it.

"And I'm warning you, don't try anything. Stay the hell away from her. You know exactly why we brought you back."

The threats were a broken record.

I'd heard them a thousand times, moving from resistance to simple numbness. I knew the script.

"I know," I said.

He slammed the door in my face.

I turned and lay back down, leaving the blanket on the floor.

I was dying; catching a cold was the least of my problems. The next morning, a fist pounding on the door woke me.

"Ms. Carver, are you up? Or do you still think you're some sort of heiress?"

The hard wooden plank and the unfamiliar room had made sleep nearly impossible.

"I'm up," I called out.

I opened the door to find Janet Maddox, the housekeeper.

She looked at me with that familiar, practiced disgust.

"If you're awake, go eat. You really do think the world revolves around you, making everyone wait?"

Six years gone, and she still hated me.

Janet had raised Brielle since she was a baby. She had no kids of her own, so she treated Brielle and Clayton like they were her flesh and blood.

When I was first found and brought into the Alder family, Janet had thrown dirty dishwater on me in front of everyone.

In her mind, since I'd been lost, I should have just died on the streets instead of coming back to take up Brielle's space.

I didn't have the energy to fight her. The cancer pain was washing over me in waves, making every breath feel like inhaling glass.

I walked into the dining room. Brielle was sitting between Rowan and Mia, blushing as she took a bite of the sandwich Rowan was holding for her.

"Rowie..." she murmured.

Then she saw me, and panic flared in her eyes.

"Dia, you're here.

"Please, don't blame me. I had no choice but to marry Rowie back then.

"If only things were different..."

The screech of a chair dragging against the floor cut through the room.

"Stop," I said. "Didn't you say you two were true love? Why would I blame you?"

Brielle's eyes instantly went red and watery.

Rowan slammed his fork onto the table, his face darkening.

"Nadia, if you're not going to eat, then leave."

I gave a faint, mocking smile and sat down, ignoring them.

I took a bite of a sandwich, but the sickly sweet taste of the ketchup hit my tongue and triggered immediate, violent nausea.

I shoved my chair back and bolted for the bathroom, retching over the sink.

"Dia, are you pregnant?"

Brielle's voice trailed after me, overly concerned.

I splashed freezing water on my face, shivering.

She was still a master at twisting the narrative.

She had severed the tendons in my hand out of jealousy, and now she was accusing me of being pregnant to protect her own saintly image.

It was crude, but it worked.

Sure enough, I heard Rowan's voice, thick with disgust.

"Nadia, have a little self-respect."

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat.

Self-respect? Did that concept even apply to me anymore?

When they threw me into that nightclub and left me there to be humiliated by those men, nobody seemed too worried about my self-respect then.

"It has nothing to do with you," I said.

Rowan scoffed. "Suit yourself."

He stormed off.

I walked back to the table and took my seat.

"Dia, since you're back, why don't you perform with me at my concert in a few days?

"Remember? Back in the day, they used to call us the 'Prodigy Duo.'"

Brielle looked at me, eyes wide and expectant.

I froze, staring down at my hands. They were wrapped in bandages day and night.

These hands would likely never hold a violin again.

Before I could hide the grief in my eyes, Mia's clear, childish voice cut through the tension.

"Auntie Brie, that ugly woman doesn't deserve to play with you. I saw her hands last time. They're gross. Really, really ugly."

The blunt cruelty of my daughter always stung the worst. I whispered, "She's right. I can't play anymore."

My voice shook.

Nobody really understood the absolute wreckage I felt when I found out I'd never use my hands again.

Back then, I'd come terrifyingly close to just ending it all.

The only thing that pulled me back from the edge was remembering Helen Fairchild—the orphanage director who'd raised me.

"Everyone dies eventually. But if you can find your way back to your roots before the end, your life is complete.

"Maybe in the next one, you'll find a family that actually loves you."

I believed her.

I just wanted to belong somewhere.

So, I washed dishes until my hands were raw, saving every cent until I had enough for a plane ticket home.

Once I was back, I scraped by sketching portraits in the park.

I had my eye on a specific burial plot under the cherry trees.

I was only a hundred bucks short.

"I'm sorry, Dia," Brielle stammered. "I... I just forgot."

"Enough, Brie. Why are you apologizing? It's her own fault she can't play anymore.

"That has nothing to do with you."

Rowan's voice was dismissive, cold.

It was a good thing I was already numb; I took the insult without even flinching.

"Just stay put for a few days," Rowan continued. "I'll come get you when you're needed.

"And behave yourself—don't even think about running. You wouldn't want that orphanage to lose its funding and get shut down, would you?"

My chest tightened.

Rowan always knew exactly which screws to turn to keep me in line.

"Understood," I whispered.

I'd figured out the night before why they'd dragged me back here.

Brielle was tangled up in a scandal—plagiarism and an affair—and the public was turning on her.

They needed a scapegoat to clear her name.

Over the next few days, Rowan was gone before I woke up and back after I was asleep.

I didn't mind the solitude.

I spent my time visiting cemeteries, though with my funds running low, I had to be picky.

Since Rowan and the others were gone, the housekeeper, Janet, refused to cook for me.

It didn't matter. My body was failing; I barely had an appetite anyway.

A single sandwich was enough to keep me going all day.

That morning, I was finally heading out to sign the contract for the plot.

I'd picked the spot, done the paperwork—I just needed to pay.

"Nadia, I'm sorry."

I looked up, startled. Rowan was watching me, guilt written all over his face.

Behind him stood a cluster of police officers.

"Ms. Carver, you're under arrest for plagiarism. We have evidence."

The room spun.

I opened my mouth, but the air caught in my throat.

"I..."

"Nadia, I never thought you were capable of something like this," Clayton said, walking in from the hallway, cutting me off.

"I know you felt like you owed Brie, but stealing a composition and giving it to her to perform? You've ruined her."

I wanted to scream, to deny it, but before I could get a word out, they had me pinned.

The shock was too much for my frail system. A hot, metallic taste filled my mouth, and blood surged up my throat.

My vision narrowed to a black point, and I went under.

When I came to, I was in a detention center.

I lay on a cold, steel bunk, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Pain radiated through every inch of me, making every breath a battle.

I knew I only had a day or two left. The doctor had been clear about the timeline.

That was when it clicked.

They never intended for me to clear her name; they brought me back to take the fall.

The genius violinist Brielle couldn't have a stain on her record, so I had to be the stain.

I laughed, a weak, delirious sound.

I stripped off what was left of my clothes and bit hard into my fingertip. Using the blood, I began to write on the fabric.

The crimson soaked into the cloth, blurring the letters, but I kept going.

By the time I finished, the sun was coming up.

A square of light spilled onto the concrete floor. I dragged myself toward it.

My fingertips just brushed the edge of the warmth when my eyes closed for the last time.

It was a shame I'd never see the sunrise again.

It was a shame I had to die in a place like this. But for some reason, I didn't fade out. Instead, my spirit hovered in the air.

I watched the guard discover my body.

I watched them zip me into a bag and transport me to the morgue.

I watched them call the Alder family, over and over, with no answer.

I hovered there, calmly watching the officers vent their frustration about Rowan.

"How can a guy be that heartless? Throwing his ex-wife under the bus was bad enough.

"And now that she's dead, he won't even pick up the phone."

The speaker was a young female officer named Ayla, clearly a rookie, staring at the receiver that had just clicked off again.

Beside her, an older cop named Frank, holding a styrofoam cup of coffee, let out a long, tired sigh.

"Human nature is the one thing you'll never figure out."

Frank set down his coffee, took the phone from Ayla, and dialed a different number.

"Forget him. Didn't the file say she came from an orphanage?

"We'll have to call the director, Helen Fairchild. It's a tragedy for her to have to bury a kid she raised."

Two sighs echoed through the office.

Hearing Helen's name was the only thing that broke my composure.

Helen was old.

I couldn't bear the thought of her hearing about this.

"No, don't call Mama Helen!" I shouted.

I tried to grab the phone to stop them, but my hand passed right through the officer's arm.

I stared at my translucent hand, the reality finally settling in.

Right.

I was dead.

My body had already been in the morgue for a week.

I gave a bitter, twisted smile as the sound of Helen sobbing crackled through the speakerphone.

My eyes widened, and heavy, phantom tears rolled down my cheeks.

The grief was agonizing, even without a beating heart.

Helen's crying stopped, and the call ended.

The officers sighed again.

Were they grieving for me?

Or just pitying the mess of it all?

"By the way, Frank. That suicide note she wrote in blood... is it real?"

Ayla asked, leaning toward Frank as she'd just remembered something.

Frank kept his face stern.

"Don't dig too deep."

Ayla lowered her head, muttering, "I just feel sorry for her.

"She was so young."

Another sigh.

"Rest assured, the department has set up a task force to investigate. We aren't just going to let this go."

"That's good."