The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a gavel.

Leo paused, his hand inches from the flask. "What's your problem now, Elara? Are you jealous that she didn't make any for you?"

"Actually," I said, walking toward them. The heels of my shoes clicked against the hardwood like the ticking of a countdown clock. "I'm worried about your health, Leo. You've always had a sensitive stomach. Who knows what 'herbs' she found in the slums? For all we know, she's been cooking hemlock in a rusted pot."

"How dare you!" Mother screamed, standing up. "Elena is a saint! She's trying to bond with her brother, and you're accusing her of-of what? Poor hygiene?"

"I'm accusing her of being a stranger," I said, looking Elena dead in the eye. "Seventeen years is a long time. People change. Some people get bitter. Some people learn how to extract what they want from those who abandoned them."

Elena's hand trembled-just a fraction. She knew I was seeing through the veil. She quickly turned to Leo, her lip quivering. "Leo, if you don't want it, I'll throw it away. I just... I wanted to do something nice."

"Give it here," Leo snapped, glaring at me. He snatched the flask and took a long, defiant swig. "Mm. Tastes like almonds and honey. Better than anything you've ever made, Elara."

I watched the liquid slide down his throat. He wiped his mouth, leaning back with a smug grin, waiting for the instantaneous collapse I had predicted. But nothing happened. He didn't choke; he didn't pale. He just looked at me with triumphant contempt. He was fine-for now. Elena was smarter than to kill him in a single day. She wanted a slow decline, a medical mystery that would eventually lead to the harvesting of my organs.

"See?" Mother huffed, smoothing her skirt. "Perfectly healthy. Now, since you've spent the afternoon being a thorn in our side, you can make yourself useful. Dinner is ready. Go fetch the tureen."

The dining room felt like a courtroom where I had already been sentenced. I moved with a silence that should have unsettled them, but they were too busy basking in Elena's presence. I brought out the soup, the steam rising in lazy, fragrant swirls.

In my past life, this was the moment everything broke. I had been so eager to please, so desperate for Elena to like me. I had reached out to serve her a bowl, and with a flick of her wrist and a practiced sob, she had pulled the hot liquid onto her own lap. She had looked at my parents with wide, watery eyes and whispered, "It's okay, Elara just slipped," while I was branded a jealous monster for the next five years.

"Serve your sister first," Father commanded, not even looking up from his wine.

I picked up the ladle. Elena sat there, the picture of a fragile doll. She looked up at me, a tiny, jagged glint of malice reflecting in her eyes. She thought she knew what I would do. She thought she was about to play the same trick.

"Give me the bowl, Elara," Elena murmured, reaching out with hands she had deliberately made to look shaky. "I can do it myself. I don't want to be a burden."

"No," I said.

The room went still. Mother's fork clattered against her uplate. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, my voice as cold as a mountain stream. "I'm not giving you this bowl."

"Elara!" Father roared, slamming his hand on the table. "What is this behavior? You have never refused a single request in this house. Give your sister the soup!"

They were shocked. To them, I was a dog that had suddenly stopped wagging its tail and started showing its teeth. Elena, seeing her window of opportunity closing, suddenly lunged for the bowl. "It's okay, I'll just-"

Splash.

Just like the last time, the bowl tipped. The hot liquid soaked into Elena's white silk dress. She let out a sharp, practiced cry, her hands flying to her chest. "Oh! My skin! Elara, why would you-"

She began to draw in a breath for the innocent accusation, preparing to tell them I had attacked her. But I didn't wait for her to finish. I didn't apologize. I didn't cry.

I grabbed the secondary tureen from the center of the table.

Before she could utter a single word of her lie, I tipped the entire vessel over her head. The thick, warm broth drenched her perfectly styled hair, dripping down her face and into her gasping mouth.

"Oops," I said. My voice was devoid of any regret. I leaned down, my face inches from hers as she sputtered in shock. "If you're going to accuse me of something, why not add a finishing touch? It would be a shame to waste a good lie on such a small spill."

I looked at my mother and father. Their mouths were hung open, frozen in a silent scream of disbelief. They had never seen me move with such violence, such intent.

"Since you think I'm a monster," I said, straightening my back and smoothing my hair, "I might as well start acting like one. Don't wait for me. I find the company here... unpalatable."

I didn't even wait for the explosion of their rage. I turned on my heel, the rose birthmark at my ear flashing under the light. I was done being their spare part.

The pain in my scalp was a sharp, searing reminder that this was no longer a nightmare from the past-it was the reality of my present. My mother's grip was frantic, her fingers tangled in my hair with a strength born of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"How dare you!" she hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of the expensive wine she'd used to toast Elena's return

"You think you can just get away with everything you've done to your twin sister? You tried to get rid of her back then, and now you're showing your true colors!"

She jerked my head down, forcing me to my knees on the cold hardwood floor. The impact sent a jolt through my joints, but I didn't make a sound.

"Beg for forgiveness," Mom commanded, her voice trembling with rage. "Kneel and beg, and I'll let everything you've done slide. Show some remorse for the life you stole from her!"

I looked up. From my position on the floor, Elena looked like a queen on a throne of lies. She looked down at me, her eyes shimmering with a fake, watery light that my parents mistook for compassion.

"Oh, Mom, no! Please, let her go," Elena said, her voice a melodic, heartbreaking sob. She stepped forward, reaching out a hand as if to help me, but the look in her eyes was a jagged blade. "I understand if she's angry. It's been a very long time... with time, me and my twin sister will get along soon... right, Elara?"

She flashed an evil, microscopic smile-the kind only a victim is meant to see.

This didn't happen in my past life.

In my past life, I would have stayed there. I would have sobbed at her feet, apologized for my jealousy, and spent the next decade trying to earn back a seat at a table that was never meant for me. I was a dog then, desperate for a pat on the head.

But dogs eventually learn how to bite.

I reached up and grabbed my mother's wrists. My grip was like iron. With a sudden, forceful wrench, I tore her hands away from my hair. I heard the sickening snap of a few strands breaking, and a fresh wave of pain radiated across my skull. I ignored it. This pain was a drop in the ocean compared to the feeling of a surgical saw cutting through my ribs.

I stood up slowly, my height dwarfing my mother's cowering frame. I didn't brush the dust off my knees. I didn't cry. I simply looked my mother in the eye.

The air in the room felt heavy, as if the house itself were holding its breath. My mother's hand flew back, her palm flat, ready to deliver a blow that would mark my face for a week.

But before she could strike, Elena moved. She threw herself between us, hugging my mother tightly, her head buried in Mom's shoulder.

"No, Mom! Don't!" Elena begged, her shoulders shaking with fright. "Don't hurt her because of me. I couldn't bear it! I'd rather go back to the streets than see this family torn apart!"

My father stepped forward, his face a mask of disgust. "Look at her, Elara. Look at the sister you tried to destroy. She's a saint, and you're a cancer. If it weren't for the Grant contract, I'd throw you out into the gutter tonight."

"The Grant contract," I repeated, the words feeling like a cold stone in my mouth. "Is that all I am? A signature on a piece of paper to save your failing business?"

"You're lucky you're worth even that much," my father spat.

I turned my gaze to Elena. She was still crying into my mother's chest, but she shifted just enough to look at me. The mask was gone for a split second. She wanted to see me break. She wanted to see me crawl back into the shadows.

Instead, I took a step toward her. My mother flinched, pulling Elena back as if I were a rabid animal.

"You want my forgiveness, Elena?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. "You want us to get along?"

The night air was a sharp, biting reminder that I was alive. As I slipped through the back gate of the Silas estate, the mud ruined my silk shoes, but I didn't care. Every step away from that house felt like shedding a layer of lead. I wasn't just walking into the dark; I was walking toward the only man who had ever seen my talent as a weapon rather than a charity case.

 In my past life, I had been so brainwashed by the "loyalty" my father preached that I viewed Mister Joe as a predator trying to lure me away from my family duties. I had ignored his letters, blocked his calls, and eventually, he had stopped asking. I had chosen a cage of gold over a throne of diamonds.

 I flagged a taxi at the edge of the district, my breath hitching as I gave the address to the Vanguard Tower. It was a sleek, glass needle piercing the city's skyline, a monument to the jewelry empire that rivaled-and often crushed-my father's stagnant business.

 When I stepped into the lobby, the silence was heavy and expensive. The marble floors reflected the dim night-lights, and the security guard didn't even ask for my ID; he simply gestured toward the private elevator. Mister Joe had clearly cleared the way.

 The elevator ascended in a stomach-turning rush. When the doors slid open, I found myself in a penthouse studio that smelled of ozone, expensive tobacco, and something metallic-the scent of raw ore and soldering tools.

 Near the floor-to-ceiling window, a figure stood with his back to me. He had a shock of stark white hair that caught the moonlight, his silhouette draped in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.

 "Mister Joe," I said, my voice sounding smaller than I intended in the vast room.

 The man turned slowly. He had kind, wrinkled eyes and a smile that reached all the way to his temples. He looked like the grandfather I never had. "Oh, dear child," he chuckled, his voice raspy and warm. "You've mistaken me for the help. I've been with the firm forty years, but I'm just the gatekeeper."

 My brow furrowed. "Then... who?"

 The old man stepped aside, gesturing toward a shadow draped over a velvet armchair in the corner of the room. "The boss is waiting for you."

 Out of the darkness, a man stood up.

 In my first life, because I had only ever communicated with the firm through formal letters and the elderly secretary, I had built a mental image of 'Mister Joe' as a fossil-a man as old and dusty as the gems he traded.

 I was wrong. Dead wrong.

 The man who stepped into the light couldn't have been a day over thirty-five. He was a masterpiece of masculine precision. His hair was a deep, midnight black, swept back with a deliberate carelessness that made him look like he had just stepped off a runway-or a battlefield. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart. They were a piercing, crystalline green, the color of high-grade emeralds found deep in the earth.

 He was breathtakingly handsome, with a jawline sharp enough to cut the very diamonds he sold. I stood there, paralyzed, my mind screaming at my past self: How? How could you have turned this man down for a life of scraping for scraps at your father's table? He didn't look like a businessman. He looked like a king who had found his lost crown.

 He walked toward me, his movements fluid and predatory, the clicking of his Italian leather shoes the only sound in the room. He stopped just inches away, radiating a heat that made the dampness of my rain-soaked dress feel suddenly heavy.

 I swallowed hard, trying to reclaim my composure. I was supposed to be a cold-blooded strategist now. I wasn't supposed to be a girl blushing at a handsome face. I forced my arm up, extending my hand for a professional, clinical handshake.

 "Hello, Mr. Joe," I said, my voice finally finding its edge. "Nice to meet you, I'm Elara Silas I called earlier, I'm here to sign." What am I saying. 

 He didn't take my hand. He didn't even look at it.

 Instead, he took one more step, closing the distance until I could smell the sandalwood and dark chocolate on his skin. Before I could breathe, he reached out and pulled me into a tight, crushing hug.

 It wasn't a hug of a stranger or a business partner. It was the hug of someone who had been holding their breath for a decade and had finally found oxygen. His arms were like iron bands around me, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I felt him shudder-a deep, visceral tremor that vibrated through my own chest.

 "Elara," he whispered, his voice a low, jagged rasp. 

 "You have no idea how long I've waited for you to walk through that door."

 I froze. The professional greeting died in my throat. This wasn't the reaction of a man seeing a talented designer for the first time. This was the reaction of a man who had lost something precious and had finally, miraculously, found it again.