Chapter 1

A housekeeper named Martha Brown swapped me with her own granddaughter at birth. She raised me in a freezing garage, feeding me scraps alongside the guard dog.

My real grandparents, none the wiser, poured all their love and fortune into Sophia Grant, the imposter. They gave her a life of luxury and ease.

Sophia, basking in her stolen life, took pleasure in tormenting me. Almost daily, she'd visit the garage to sneer.

"Even a dog knows to bark at strangers. What use is a mute like you?" she would taunt.

Her grandmother, Martha, would hurry her away, hissing, "Stay clear of her, Ms. Grant. That creature is cursed. You wouldn't want her misfortune to touch you."

They had no idea I knew the truth about my birth, or that my silence was a choice.

Twelve years passed. Then, a terrible illness left my grandparents paralyzed. I knew Martha had a hand in their poisoning.

On the day Sophia legally inherited the family business, her final act was one of callous disposal. She had the two frail, neglected figures wheeled into the garage and dropped before me. "The business is mine now. You can have these two useless relics," she stated flatly.

I looked at the broken forms of my own flesh and blood, then back at Sophia. A calm smile finally broke my long silence. "Fine. You take the fortune. I'll take my family," I said, my voice clear and steady.

*****

With a sharp kick, Martha sent the twin dog bowls clattering across the concrete floor. Cold leftovers and murky water splashed near my feet. "How many times do I have to tell you? The dog eats first. You wait," she snapped, her voice like grating gravel.

Her expression shifted in an instant as she turned toward Sophia, her face smoothing into an obsequious mask. "Right this way, Ms. Grant. Best keep your distance from this one. Bad luck and kennel stench cling to her. Wouldn't want any of it rubbing off on you."

Sophia's chin tilted up, her gaze sweeping over me with cold disdain. A dismissive snort escaped her. "At least a dog knows its job—to bark at strangers. What use are you, a mute who can't even make a sound?"

Terror, cold and familiar, coiled in my gut. Instinct took over, pressing my body flat against the damp, grimy floor in a desperate, silent plea for mercy.

The heavy garage door rumbled open, revealing an elderly couple dressed in impeccably tailored clothes. "Sophia, darling, time to go. The gallery is holding several pianos for us to see. Seven-figure models. Pick whichever you like."

Faced with her benefactors, the eleven-year-old Sophia performed her habitual transformation. The haughty sneer melted into a sweet, radiant smile. "Coming!"

Just before stepping into the sleek town car, Miranda Grant paused. Her brows drew together as her gaze fell on my huddled form in the corner.

Logan Grant followed his wife's look and understood. He addressed Martha, his tone measured but firm, "She is still a child, Martha. Keeping her out here with the animals is... unseemly. The house has plenty of rooms. Find one for her."

"Of course, sir." Martha fawned, bobbing her head. "I only kept her out here thinking her presence might inconvenience you and Mrs. Grant."

The moment the taillights of the town car vanished down the drive, the pleasant mask shattered. Martha's face darkened with rage. Her fists and feet became a storm, raining blows upon my already bruised body.

"Don't you get any ideas, you little bitch! They don't see you! You're nothing but a bastard! They only said that to avoid a scandal if someone saw!"

As Martha spewed her nasty insults, I just quietly shielded my head with my arms—the same spot she'd already cracked before. Inside, I felt nothing at all.

I'd known the truth from the start—I was the real heiress of the Grant family, and Sophia was just Martha's actual granddaughter.

My parents died in a car crash when I was six. The orphanage was my new, gray world. Six months later, Logan and Miranda arrived, searching for their lost granddaughter. Martha saw her chance.

She presented her own rustic-raised Sophia, and on that day, she had held me, weeping dramatic tears. "My poor, mute girl, I'm your real grandmother!"

But I just stared at Sophia, watching her get ushered into the luxury Bentley by Logan and Miranda, looking all stunned and thrilled.

I knew everything. And I was no mute. But I stayed quiet, letting Martha take me to Grant Estate not as the heiress, but as a nuisance, relegated to the cold garage to share space with the guard dogs.

Sophia lived my life, bathed in luxury and doting affection.

Forced by Logan's command, Martha moved me. My new home was a narrow utility closet off the laundry room, scarcely large enough to lie down in.

Seething, she vented her fury by grabbing my hair and shoving my head into the churning drum of the washing machine. The world whirled into a violent, watery blur. Panic clawed at my throat, a primal terror of drowning in soapy darkness. I lost control of my bladder.

Only then did she relent, yanking me back by my hair. "Remember your place, you useless mute. You so much as look at them with those pitiful eyes again, dreaming of a life that's not yours, and I will end you."

Even though the entire mansion was meant to be my home, I ended up living in a tiny laundry room barely six feet wide—all the way until I was seventeen.

A nightmare startled me awake one night. Thirsty, I slipped out and padded silently upstairs for water.

As I passed the kitchen, a furtive movement caught my eye. Martha stood by the counter, her head swiveling nervously. In her hand was a small canister of white powder, which she was carefully mixing into the large tin of nutritional formula my grandparents drank nightly. Her muttered words drifted to me, barely audible. "Those old fart, go to hell. Just a little longer... Sophia turns eighteen soon... then the Grant fortune is ours..."

Stunned for a second, I just turned away like I hadn't seen a thing and went back to the laundry room.

I pulled the covers over myself, turned off the light, and went back to sleep.