Crimson liquid trickled down Zara Powell’s neck, soaking slow into the collar of her clothes.

That icy chill, tangled up in crippling fear, sent full-body shivers racing down her spine.

But she didn’t have time to fall apart. All she wanted was to get out. Her mind was already stretched thin, ready to snap.

Sharp whispers bit at her from every direction.

"Is that really Zara Powell from two years ago? Back then, her paintings went for half a million bucks easy."

"Unreal. One look and you’d think she’s some homeless beggar who snuck in, hahaha."

"Doesn’t matter how talented she was. She’s always been rotten goods. A cold-blooded killer like her doesn’t belong anywhere decent."

"And Samir only dragged her here to humiliate her, right? Look over there—he’s watching the whole show unfold."

Zara clutched her head in agony, shoving through the crowd desperate to leave.

But Samir’s cold indifference had already set the tone. Everywhere she turned, people stepped right in her way on purpose.

Jeers and insults bounced off the walls around her, and Zara’s sanity was already teetering on the edge of collapse.

*SLAP!*

A rough hand wrenched her hair back, and a second later, a palm cracked hard across her face.

Her vision and hearing blurred to static. Through the fog, she could just make out the furious woman who’d hit her—Cataleya Rivera, Ailani’s mother.

"You heartless monster! My son’s body isn’t even cold, and you have the nerve to show your face around here!"

The crowd, hungry for a spectacle, pointed and whispered their disdain.

Samir sprawled on a couch nearby, long legs crossed, watching Zara crumple to the floor. A cigarette burned between his fingers, its tip glowing faint crimson, and his dark giveaways revealed nothing—no anger, no pity, nothing at all.

Zara struggled and hauled herself to her feet. She didn’t bother with explanations, just babbled a hurried apology: "I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ll leave."

Cataleya’s eyes turned blood red. She kicked off her high heel and launched herself at Zara.

"See! You admit it! You killed my son on purpose! I swear to God, I’ll kill you today!"

She threw herself at Zara, scratching and punching with wild abandon.

Zara curled into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her head. For a second, she was right back in that dark room a year ago, learning to take the blows from the orderlies and the patients. It was just the same old routine.

As fists rained down on her, a soft, smooth voice cut through the chaos: "Mom, that’s enough."

The second the sound hit her ears, Zara’s fists clenched for half a heartbeat before she went limp again, her face slipping back into that empty, lifeless mask.

Ailani Rivera glided in, all grace and poise. Her pale yellow Victorian dress shimmered under the chandelier light, like she was glowing from within.

She tugged Cataleya off Zara and chided gently: "Mom, this isn’t the place for a scene. Samir brought Zara here as a guest, and the court already ruled on what happened. We shouldn’t bring it up again."

Reluctantly, Cataleya shot a death glare at Zara, who was already trying to stand again. She huffed, catching her breath: "Ailani, you’re too nice to this wicked bitch. She needs to be put in her place!"

Ailani softy rebuked her again: "That’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving, we have guests everywhere. You’re making Samir look bad."

With that, she stepped toward Zara and slipped her arm through Zara’s: "Miss Powell, let me take you to change before you catch a cold from that wet dress."

Zara tried to jerk away, but when she caught Samir’s blank, indifferent gaze, she lowered her head and followed Ailani down the hall to a private room.

Once the bedroom door clicked shut, Ailani pulled a dress from the wardrobe and tossed it right on the floor at Zara’s feet. "Change into this."

When Zara bent to pick it up, Ailani’s stiletto slammed down hard on the back of her hand.

Zara looked up at her, her face calm as still water.

Ailani sneered: "Recognize this room?"

Zara said nothing. That blank, impassive expression only stoked Ailani’s jealousy hotter.

"This is Samir’s room. You used to live here, didn’t you? But now it’s mine. I’m the one who stays here with him. How dare you even set foot in here, you dirty street rat?"

Zara’s voice was soft, steady: "Do you have a long-sleeve shirt? I’m not comfortable in dresses."

Ailani’s brow furrowed so sharp it looked like it would crack. She dragged her heel off Zara’s hand: "Did you even hear a word I just said to you?"

Zara stood up, brushed the lint from her hand onto her stained dress, and nodded: "I heard you."

Ailani stormed back to the closet, yanked out a plain dark shirt, and stomped it into the carpet with her heel over and over.

She taunted, holding it out like garbage: "Fine. Wear this instead."

Zara walked over calmly, picked the shirt up off the floor, and turned her back to Ailani to change.

Ailani’s face twisted with disbelief. What the hell was this? Zara never would have taken this humiliation lying down before, right?

She ground her teeth and hissed low: "You’re just trying to win Samir’s sympathy, aren’t you? Pretty clever tactic, Zara. But let me save you the trouble—it’s never going to work."

Finished changing, Zara held her wine-stained old sweater and turned back around, still calm as anything: "Miss Rivera, may I leave now?"

This couldn’t be Zara.

Had that rotten whore sent a lookalike to sneak in here instead?

Furious, Ailani yanked hard on Zara’s collar, glaring daggers into her face: "Who are you really?"

Zara’s voice came out almost mechanical: "Miss Rivera, you know me. I’m Zara Powell."

"Impossible! You lying bitch! Tell me where the real Zara Powell is!" Ailani seethed, raising her hand to slap Zara again.

But Zara caught her wrist mid-swing.

She held Ailani’s gaze and said, flat and steady: "You can’t hit me." Anyone else could. But not you, Ailani. And definitely not Samir.

Ailani gritted her teeth. This bitch is just putting on an act!

She tried to yank her wrist free, but for all Zara’s calm, her grip was iron-tight. She couldn’t move an inch.

The door clicked open. The familiar thud of confident footsteps echoed across the hardwood.

Ailani gasped and threw herself backward dramatically, like Zara had pushed her.

Samir crossed the room in two quick strides and caught her, steadying her: "Are you alright?"

Ailani nodded, biting her lip, tears welling up in her big brown eyes.

Samir’s gaze snapped to the still, quiet Zara standing by the wardrobe. "Did you push her, Zara?"

In that split second, Zara remembered his words from two years ago, sharp as a knife to the chest: "Just because Ailani loves me, you tried to hurt her brother?"

Her eyes flickered, so fast no one could have noticed, before she answered: "I’m sorry. It was my fault."

Samir’s jaw tightened. He closed the distance between them, until he was so close Zara could smell his cigarette smoke: "Explain it to me. Tell me it wasn’t you."

Zara stood her ground, and shook her head just barely: "I shouldn’t have pushed her. I’m sorry."

Samir Powell’s face darkened with rage, his fingers digging into Zara Powell’s shoulders as he wrenched her around to face his icy, piercing glare. "You’ve got some real nerve, Zara. Since you love confessing so damn much, I’ll make damn sure you’ve got plenty to confess today."

With that, he wrenched her arm and dragged her roughly out the door.

Ailani Rivera’s eyes flashed with worry, and she hurried after them, pleading. "Samir, please, don’t do this. Miss Powell didn’t mean any harm. I’m really fine, you don’t have to do this for me."

Samir didn’t even hear her. Blinded by white-hot rage, he dragged Zara straight into the packed hall full of party guests.

Up on the stage, the host was in the middle of his speech for the Thanksgiving celebration.

Samir stormed right up, snatched the microphone out of his hand, and stared him down with a look that could freeze hell. "Move."

The host froze for a second, caught off guard, then quickly recovered and plastered on a smile for the crowd. "Let’s welcome Mr. Powell to say a few words!"

Shrinking under Samir’s unblinking, brutal glare, the host hurried off the stage immediately.

Samir hauled Zara to center stage.

Staring out at the sea of hundreds of staring faces, Zara dropped her head, breathing so fast her chest heaved, her face drained of every last drop of color.

She trembled, repeating the same lie over and over in her head to calm down: It’s okay, it’s okay, none of this is real, it’s all just an illusion.

Samir jammed the microphone right in front of her mouth, his voice cold as a grave. "Did you kill Watson Rivera?"

Zara whispered, "Yes."

Her voice was barely louder than a breath, but it boomed and echoed all through the vast hall.

As her amplified confession hung in the air, Zara’s heart lurched and quaked.

Samir ground his teeth, sneering. "Excellent. Did you do it on purpose?"

Zara’s nails dug so deep into her palms they drew blood. She kept her head bowed, and said nothing.

Hundreds of eyes burned into her back.

Samir pressed harder, spitting the words out. "Answer me—was it intentional, or self-defense?"

Her clenched hands shook. Finally, she forced the words out. "It was intentional."

"What do you mean by intentional?"

"I intentionally killed Watson Rivera."

The admission sent a shockwave through the crowd, and everyone gasped.

Chaos erupted instantly: people pulled out their phones to snap photos, shouted in shock, and half-assedly tried to hold back Cataleya Rivera, who was frothing at the mouth to get at Zara.

Samir slammed his fist down so hard on the podium the whole thing shook.

He grabbed Zara’s jaw in his bloodstained hand, snarl ing. "Then why the hell did the court rule otherwise?"

Zara lifted her head slowly to look at him, and his sharply handsome face filled her entire vision.

She thought, out of nowhere: if the baby I carried two years ago had been born, he’d be over a year old now. He’d probably look just like Samir.

Her empty, hollow gaze dropped again. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips. "Because I bribed my defense lawyer."

Samir’s grip on her jaw tightened so hard she thought he’d crush her bones. "How did you bribe him?"

Zara spoke without a single trace of emotion, like she was recounting some boring story that had nothing to do with her.

"I slept with him, and had his child."

*Crack.*

Her head slammed into the concrete wall behind her. Samir pinned her shoulder to it with one hand, wrapped the other around her throat, and squeezed.

His jaw muscles twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, and his voice seethed with unbridled fury. "How dare you! How fucking dare you!"

As the oxygen burned out of her lungs, Zara didn’t even struggle. She just stood there, letting him squeeze harder and harder.

Slowly, everything in front of her blurred. When her body went limp and started to fall, a strong arm caught her mid-collapse.

She hung suspended for a second, the roar of the crowd around her swelling, then fading to dead silence as everything went black.

When the pressure on her throat loosened, she dragged air back into her lungs bit by bit, and consciousness slowly crept back.

She forced her eyes open, and through the fuzzy blur she saw the back of a car seat in front of her. She was in a car.

A strange, hollow feeling washed over her—like she’d died, and just dragged herself tragically back to life.

For the last two years, this is how she felt almost every time she woke up.

Samir, half-unhinged with rage, saw she was awake and wrenched her upright, forcing her to face him.

He fisted a hand in her hair, staring so hard his eyes looked like they’d burn right through her. "Where’s the kid? Where is it?!"

Zara shook her head, slow and heavy. "It’s gone."

Samir’s dark eyes flickered. "You were never pregnant, were you? You lied to me?"

"I miscarried while I was in the psychiatric hospital," Zara answered softly.

It hit him like a needle to the heart, but that flash of pain was instantly swallowed whole by jealousy and hatred.

He shoved Zara away, hard, so that her head cracked against the car window. He glared straight ahead. "Uncle Finn, find the lawyer that defended her back then—I want him to see exactly how he…"

"He’s already gone," Zara cut him off. For the first time all night, something other than blank calm showed on her face.

A tiny smile touched her lips, and it hid all her despair, all her guilt, all her pain right in that faint curve.

Samir’s body went rigid. Zara spoke softly, gently. "He took my case, went against the law, faced all the public outrage, became a target. So he died." Public opinion is an invisible killer.

A weird, unnameable emotion twisted in his chest, and for a minute, he couldn’t speak.

Zara shifted a little, and lifted her eyes to his, pleading. "Mr. Powell, please just let me go. I have nothing left. The Powell family has nothing left."

Even sitting right beside him, not ten inches apart, it felt like there was an uncrossable chasm yawning between them.

For the rest of their lives, that chasm would never be closed.

Samir suddenly leaned in close, so close his cold breath fanned her face. His icy eyes looked like they could see straight into her soul.

"Let you go? Don’t even waste your breath thinking about it."

Zara’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

It was only when she noticed they were driving down a road she didn’t recognize that she spoke again. "I need to get back to work. Please let me out."

Her detached, polite tone stung him like a slap. Every word was a fresh jab to the chest.

His voice was ice. "Come home with me. You don’t need to go to work today."

Zara hesitated, then had to remind him. "Mr. Powell, I think you’ve had too much to drink. I have my own place. If my job bothers you that much, I’ll quit and leave."

Samir’s face was grim as stone. "Where do you live? Uncle Finn will drive you."

Zara’s heart trembled, and the words slipped out before she could stop them. "Thank you, but I can get back on my own."

Samir glared at her, intense and unblinking. "Zara, what are you trying to say here? Why do you have to act like you’re this wronged little victim?"

"Mr. Powell, you misunderstood. Your time is valuable, I can handle it on my own."

Samir finally snapped, unable to hold back his frustration any longer. "Get the fuck out!"

Uncle Finn hit the brakes fast. Zara immediately wrenched the door open and got out, then flagged down a taxi to get as far away as she could.

Back inside the car, Samir’s gaze was murderous as he gave a cold, sharp order. "Follow her."

The second Zara Powell slid into the back of the taxi, she spotted it— a car hanging right on their tail.

Even after the taxi turned onto a quiet back road with barely any traffic, that car didn’t fall back. Worry crept into her voice when she finally leaned forward, "Driver, can you speed up a little?"

The driver glanced at the flashy Mercedes in his rearview, then back at Zara, his brow furrowing with concern, "That car following you, miss?"

Zara bit her lip and stared at her lap, "No."

She didn’t even bother glancing over her shoulder to check.

The driver didn’t push. He just shook his head with a dry huff, "C'mon miss, look at this beat-up cab I’m driving, then look at that car behind us. I’d love to floor it, but this old thing just can’t pull it off."

He chuckled lightly, but the laugh died when he caught how tight her jaw was set. After that, he just drove in silence.

The taxi pulled up to a run-down old apartment building. Zara scrambled out and bolted straight into the complex.

Once she rounded a corner and was sure the tail was gone, she pressed her back to the drab, peeling brick, gasping for deep, shaky breaths.

She called her manager at the library to take the afternoon off, climbed the creaky stairs to the fourth floor, and jammed her key into the lock of her tiny rental.

*CRASH!*

The sound of porcelain shattering made her heart lurch into her throat. She dropped everything and sprinted straight for the kitchen.

Her mom, Jennifer Price, was leaning against the sink, a fork clutched in one hand, breathing hard like she’d run a mile.

Zara hurried to help her to the lumpy worn couch in the living room, rubbing her back to help her catch her breath.

"Mom, didn’t I tell you not to cook by yourself? You can just order in with the number I gave you," Zara said.

When Jennifer finally got her breath back, guilt softened her voice, "There were leftovers. I didn’t see the point in wasting money. Besides, takeout’s not that good for you anyway."

Zara sat down beside her, voice soft and steady, "I make enough money. The job Dr. Spencer got me is easy, and it pays great. Takeout doesn’t break the bank, I promise."

A pale, thin hand settled over Zara’s. Jennifer sighed, "Zara, baby… your mom’s just been such a weight on you, hasn’t she?"

"Don’t say that. I’ll cook, just sit here and rest, okay?" Zara slipped her hand out of her mom’s and headed back to the kitchen.

As she chopped vegetables, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The knife slipped, nicking the tip of her finger deep.

She gasped, yanking her hand back and holding it under cold running water before wrapping it in a paper towel and going right back to chopping.

By the time dinner was on the table, she spotted a stack of vitamin boxes sitting by her mom’s plate. Her brow furrowed, "Mom, where’d these come from?"

Jennifer paused mid-bite with her fork, like she’d forgotten all about them, "Oh! Ethan dropped those off earlier. He even tried to give me a debit card, but I wouldn’t take it."

Zara took a bite of rice, chewed, and said after a minute, "I told you not to take anything from Dr. Spencer. These vitamins aren’t cheap, and he’s already done so much for us."

Jennifer set her fork down and scooted closer to Zara on the couch they used as a dining bench, "Zara, Ethan’s such a good man. You know he likes you, right?"

A heavy weight settled in Zara’s chest. She kept her eyes on her plate and kept eating, "I know. But I’m not good enough for him."

"What do you mean, not good enough?"

Indignation heated Jennifer’s voice, "You used to sell your paintings for thousands! You were the talented Powell girl, everyone in Brooklyn knew your name! That heartless bastard had every girl throwing herself at him, and he still picked you—"

"Don’t mention him!" Zara cut in sharply, her whole body shaking.

She forced herself to calm down, then lifted her eyes to meet Jennifer’s, soft voice steady now, "Mom, it wasn’t my paintings that were worth anything. It was the Powell name, back when we still had money. The Powells are gone now. There’s no such thing as a ‘Powell heiress’ anymore."

Jennifer’s eyes glistened with tears, "My baby’s talented. You’re gold— you shine no matter where you are. You deserve someone like Ethan, someone good—"

Zara put a flaky piece of white fish in her mom’s bowl, cutting her off gently, "Mom, that’s enough. Dr. Spencer is kind, he’s respectable, he comes from a good family. If I accept his gifts, or his feelings, it’s just taking advantage. Promise me you won’t take anything from him again, okay?"

Jennifer didn’t push it any further. The rest of dinner dragged by in thick, heavy silence.

After Zara finished washing the dishes, she walked back to the bedroom and found Jennifer sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at a sheaf of papers. She quickly stuffed them behind her back when she saw Zara walk in.

Over the past two years, Jennifer had been plagued by one health issue after another. Zara knew exactly what those papers were the second she walked in the door.

"The diagnosis came back? Did Dr. Spencer bring it?"

Zara stepped closer, a cold sinking feeling settling deep in her gut.

She already knew it wasn’t good news.

Jennifer clutched the papers tighter behind her back, shaking her head nervously, "Everything’s fine, baby. All normal, nothing serious."

Zara nodded, looked away for half a second, then quickly lunged and snatched the papers right out of her mom’s hand.

When she read what was printed on the page, her face drained of all color, turning ashen as ash.

Jennifer reached out for the papers, then pulled her hand back. Zara’s face said it all— she’d seen the truth.

They sat in dead silence for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Zara whispered the word that hung over both of them like a shadow, "Leukemia?"

Jennifer grabbed Zara’s arm, anxious and rushing to soothe her, "Zara, it’s okay! Dr. Spencer said it’s caught early, it’s not that bad. We can just treat it with medication first."

Zara’s hand clenched the paper so tight her knuckles went bone white. After a long minute, she sat down next to Jennifer and met her eyes.

"Mom, we’re admitting you right away. No matter how much it costs, we’re going to get you better. In a couple years, when Dad gets out, we’ll all be healthy and whole again, just like before."

Jennifer’s voice choked up, tears rolling down her cheeks, "I won’t go. We’ve dumped every penny we have into hospitals all these years. You want to work yourself to the bone for me?"

Zara started folding clothes into a duffel bag, her voice calm and unshakable, "I’ll figure out the money. If I lose you, I really have nothing left to live for."

Once Jennifer was checked in, Zara sat down with Ethan. He told her medication and chemo would be the first step; if that didn’t work, they’d need a bone marrow transplant.

By the time all the paperwork and admissions were done, dusk had painted the sky purple and gold.

After Jennifer fell asleep after her initial tests, Zara left Ethan’s office and wandered to the big window at the end of the hospital corridor, staring out at the city lights twinkling below.

At night, this city was all glitter and grit tangled together.

Some people partied all night long, throwing money around like it was water. Other people fought just to make it to the next day, where even waking up breathing felt like a luxury.

Zara pulled her gaze away from the skyline, fished in the pocket of her jacket, pulled out the business card someone had handed her at the library, dialed the number printed on it, and waited for someone to pick up.