The next morning, I went downstairs for my morning run.

The ground floor living room was brightly lit, laughter spilling out like broken glass.

Elena was clinging to my mother’s, arm, rubbing against her like a kitten, her voice sickeningly sweet:

“Mamma, please invite every ‘made man’ in the city to the coming-of-age party. I want the Rose Mass to be the most sensational event New York has seen in ten years.”

“Yes, yes, my little princess gets what she wants,” my mother said, gently tidying a stray strand of hair near Elena’s temple.

My father took the cigar from his lips and smiled with complete indulgence: “Elena is growing up. It’s good to invite the elders. Let the outsiders see the Elio family’s next rose.”

They were the picture of domestic bliss, like a Mafia-version of ‘The Holy Family.’ I was the superfluous character accidentally sketched into the corner.

I hugged the wall, heading toward the kitchen, just wanting a glass of cold water.

“Rhea, you’re awake?” My mother looked up, and immediately dropped her beaming smile, switching to the formal tone she reserved for social functions. “Elena’s coming-of-age is on the 3rd of next month at St. Cecilia Cathedral. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

The 3rd of next month—

That’s the date I’d booked my flight to Nevada to start acclimating to the desert project early.

Last life, for this “family public debut,” I ditched my summer grid-testing project at NREL (National Renewable Energy Laboratory), pulled all-nighters memorizing Sicilian Etiquette History, only to be publicly mocked by Elena on the day of the ceremony for being “so unrefined she couldn’t even pronounce the Latin right”.

That gunfight fifteen years ago, that bullet that should have killed me instantly, was like a bloody wound. The harder I tried to stitch it up, the more they tore it open.

“No,” I heard myself say, my voice like an ice cube hitting a glass. “I’ve signed up for the subsidiary’s ‘Desert Wind Power Preliminary Survey’ field internship. I leave on the 1st of next month.”

The living room went quiet enough to hear the cigar burning.

Elena was the first to react. A flash of blinding joy flickered in her eyes, but her tone was full of concern: “Sister? The desert has snakes, extreme temperature swings, and… it’s unsafe.”

My father crushed his cigar heavily, the furrow in his brow deepening: “What idiotic survey? Cancel it immediately. It’s your sister’s coming-of-age. What will the others think if you don’t show up?”

It was always like this—

My schedule, my wishes, always the footnote that could be casually sacrificed.

I gripped the glass, my knuckles white, but my voice was steady, like a mixing board slider pushed all the way down: “The project list has been submitted to the union. I can’t back out.”

“You—” My father’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His barely contained rage made the air around him feel like it was ready to burst into flames.

My mother stepped in to smooth things over: “Alright, it’s good for a child to have her own career. Rhea, just make sure you take plenty of sunscreen.”

I gave a curt “Hmm,” filled my glass, and headed back to my room.

Behind me, Elena’s low, saintly sigh drifted through the hall: “Mom, Dad, don’t be mad. Sis just… hasn’t fully accepted she’s an Elio yet.”

I gently closed the door, shutting the saint’s lamentation out.

Back in my room, I started ‘decluttering.’

My belongings were pathetically sparse:

A used MacBook I bought with saved cash, A few sweaters hand-knitted by my foster mother, An old key to the Palermo apartment—a property the family had long since ‘dealt with,’ but I’d forgotten to toss the key.

I crammed everything into a 20-inch carry-on.

My bank account held two years’ worth of my ‘good girl’ allowance and the salary I had saved—a six-figure sum, enough to survive in the desert until my project profit share kicked in. I had no intention of using the Elio family’s black card ever again.

7:00 PM. Dinner at the long table.

The silver candelabra was dazzling, but the atmosphere was as frozen like a cold winter.

My father was seething with visible anger. His knife, scraping the steak against the porcelain, let out a high, grating shriek.

My mother attempted to inject some life into the frozen air, prattling on about the gala menu: “We’ll need the truffles flown in from Alba, of course, and the main course must be the Chilean sea bass. Oh, and the patisserie will require those twenty-four karat gold flakes for the dessert tower…”

Elena played along, occasionally tossing a line my way: “Sister, the Nevada sun is fierce. Your skin is so fair. Remember to pack SPF 50.”

“Noted.”

“The food out there is quite cowboy. You have a sensitive stomach. Should I have someone mail you some nice pasta?”

“No need.”

My curt responses finally broke my mother’s composure. She put down her silverware, her voice still maintaining an aristocratic restraint: “Rhea, are you upset about something with your father and me?”

I lifted my eyes, scanning the three faces—Father, irate; Mother, helpless; Elena, performing concern.

What a familiar judgment stage. Last life, every time my lip curled, it inevitably resulted in the final verdict: “The ungrateful child.”

“No,” my tone was steady. “I just want to take a path where I hold the steering wheel.”

“Your path is running off to the desert to breathe sand?” My father scoffed. “Is the Elio family short on cash for you? Are you so desperate to leave that you think we’re going to eat you alive?”

Yes. Desperate.

I finished his sentence in my head, but on my face, I held up the shield they couldn’t argue against: “Renewable energy is a federally subsidized priority. It benefits the family’s whitewashing endeavors. I’m laying groundwork for the Elio family’s future.”

The word—‘whitewashing’—hit my father like a blow. His face went green, as if dripping with cigar ash.

My mother quickly smoothed things over: “Alright, alright, it’s good the child has foresight. Eat your dinner. The pasta is getting cold.”

I stood up first: “I’m finished. Please enjoy your meal.”

As I turned to go upstairs, my father’s suppressed roar followed me: “Look at her! Look what those heathens outside have taught her!”

My mother softly reassured him: “Don’t shout. It’s normal for her to be shortsighted after wandering outside for so many years…”

I gently closed my bedroom door, locking all their voices out of the gilded hallway.

Just as I thought. In their eyes, I will always be the one—

—who can’t wash off the scent of dirt, —who doesn’t deserve the Elio surname, —who should just quietly serve as a backdrop, “The Returned Stray Dog”.

This time, I couldn’t be bothered to even offer an explanation.

Back in my room, I locked the door, and the world finally fell silent.

I opened my laptop. First, I logged into the corporate intranet and reread the NDA for the ‘Las Vegas Desert Wind Power Project Team.’ Then, I opened Zillow and searched for a one-bedroom apartment in Henderson.

I wasn’t planning on staying in corporate housing this time—I wanted a territory entirely my own.

After saving the documents, I picked up the red marker and crossed off another day on the calendar.

Fifteen days left.

The second hand on the clock seemed to be dragged down by the desert heat, moving slower than a jammed clip.

For the next few days, I switched myself to silent mode. Mom and Dad were totally swallowed up by planning Elena’s graduation and her massive gala, which meant they were far too distracted to even notice my little act of ‘rebellion.’

The gift was personally chosen by my mother—

A customized Rolls-Royce Dawn, the body painted Elena’s favorite ivory white, the family crest meticulously traced on the roof in real rose gold thread.

I was out for my morning run the day the car was delivered to the estate and ran straight into them.

My mother, linking arms with Elena and smiling like the Virgin Mary, instantly wiped the smile off her face when she saw me, adopting a cautious expression. “This is a graduation surprise for your sister. If you like it...”

I preemptively played the part of the dutiful daughter: “Don't worry about me. That old wrist injury means I can’t handle a wheel properly. It would just sit in the garage and collect dust.”

She visibly relaxed and added: “We’ll pick out something else for you next time.”

There won’t be a next time—I knew it, and they did too. But it was exactly what I wanted. I was done taking their money. Period.

I left the house at six every morning and stayed at the municipal library until closing.

Occasionally, passing the ‘Elio Logistics’ company near Chinatown, old employees would nod and whisper: “Signorina.”

The upward inflection of the ending note carried that unique Sicilian pity—

“See? That’s the poor thing who was mistakenly declared dead in the gang war and crawled back out of the gutter.”

In this circle, Elena was the rose consecrated with holy water; I was the dried-up desert thorn. My existence was merely a family concession to the outside world:

“Look, we didn’t neglect our own flesh and blood.”

How utterly ironic.

The departure day finally arrived.

I booked a red-eye flight, taking off at 01:15 AM. I told no one.

At eleven at night, I carried my 20-inch carry-on downstairs.

Blue light flickered in the living room; the three of them were huddled on the sofa watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians—Elena’s favorite channel. Their laughter was like champagne foam, ready to pop.

The slight click-clack of the wheels on the hardwood floor brought the laughter to an abrupt halt.

“Sister, are you…?” Elena clutched a blanket to her chest, her large eyes blinking innocently.

“I’m going to the airport. Early report for the project.”

“Now?” My mother jumped up, the remote control clattering onto the rug. “Let the driver take you—”

“Uber’s at the gate.” I raised a hand, dismissing the offer.

My father crushed his cigar into the ashtray. Sparks flew out, reflecting his barely contained temper: “Are you really going?”

My mother reached out, intending to straighten my collar.

I flinched away, just barely, and her fingertips snagged on empty space. Her hand froze mid-air, and for a split second, a look of genuine hurt crossed her face.

A fleeting ripple crossed my chest, instantly subsiding into still water—the touch I yearned for in the last life, I no longer needed in this one.

“I’ll handle my own rent and living expenses,” my voice was as calm as reading a quarterly report.

“I won’t be using the family accounts anymore.”

“You little bastard!” My father slammed his hand on the coffee table; the glass cups jumped half an inch. “Has the Elio family ever wronged you? Are you trying to be an ungrateful child?”

“Carlo!” My mother tugged at his sleeve.

Elena approached, eyes red, reaching for my hand: “Sister, apologize to Dad quickly! Don’t say things you don’t mean—”

I took a half-step back, avoiding her touch.

“It’s not an emotional outburst. It’s a notification.”

I pulled up the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the foyer.

“Rhea Elio!” My father roared. “If you step out that door today, don’t you dare use the Elio name again!”

I paused for a single second. I didn’t turn around.

“Fine.”

A soft word, yet it felt like loading a bullet into the chamber.

If I knew one thing for sure, it was this: my new life, the one without the Elio name attached, was finally beginning.