Chapter 2

My parents stormed into the morgue with Emily and Andrew.

The whole way there, my mother never stopped cursing. "That ungrateful brat! What was the point of raising her? All she ever does is cause trouble. This time, I'll make sure she learns her lesson."

My father's face was grim. "Once we drag her home, she's going straight to apologize to Mr. Thompson. I won't let this project fall apart."

Emily snuggled into Andrew's arms, dabbing at her fake tears. "Mom, Dad, don't be mad at Charlotte. She's just a little hot-headed. She didn't mean it."

Andrew chimed in with a frown, "Yeah, Mr. and Mrs. Lane, Charlie just got spoiled by you two. She's way too headstrong. Once we're married, I'll straighten her out."

The two of them were in perfect harmony, acting as if I were still their puppet to yank around.

But then the coroner pulled open the drawer, revealing my pale, swollen, lifeless face.

My mother's curses died on her tongue. She stared blankly at the cold body, the color draining from her face in an instant.

"No... This isn't Charlotte..." she whispered, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "My daughter... She had a tiny mole in her left eyebrow. This body doesn't have it."

The coroner, stone-faced, handed her a report. "The victim's identity has been confirmed. This is Charlotte Lane. As for the mole, after prolonged immersion in water, skin features can change."

My father's legs buckled, and he almost dropped to his knees. Andrew had to grab him to keep him from collapsing.

"No... This is impossible..." My father's lips quivered, terror and disbelief clouding his eyes.

Emily's crying shifted too—from crocodile tears to real panic. "Charlotte, how could you actually die? You weren't joking?"

She threw herself into my mother's arms, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

But my mother looked like all the strength had drained out of her. She went rigid, then toppled backward like a felled tree.

"Mrs. Lane," Andrew shouted as he scrambled to catch her.

The room descended into chaos.

I hovered above them, cold and detached, watching this overdue scene unfold.

So, now they were scared and regretted it.

But it was too late.

My heart had died long ago—after every accusation, every wound, every time they threw me to the wolves. My body was only catching up.

The police handed over my belongings—a smashed phone and a house key.

"We found this in the victim's phone," one officer said, passing them a sealed evidence bag with my cracked phone inside. "Our tech team recovered the final recording. We believe it may be related to her death."

They played the audio.

Over the noisy background, a man's leering laugh mingled with my screams.

"Why are you running, sweetheart? Have a drink with me and I'll sign your dad's project," Jack's voice slithered through the speaker.

"Get away from me! Don't touch me!"—my voice, shaking with fear and fury.

Then came the sounds of struggling, fabric tearing, and my panicked cries. "Help! Let go of me!"

The recording cut off there.

My father's face went white as chalk. He remembered how I had come home from that dinner—my clothes rumpled, my cheeks streaked with tears.

I had told him that Jack tried to put his hands on me.

But he snapped, "It takes two to tango. You must've dressed too provocatively and led him on. What's the big deal about having dinner for a project? Don't act like you're some princess."

My mother remembered too. She had pointed at me and yelled, "You still have the nerve to cry? You offended a client. What about your father's business? You're a curse to this family."

Now the recording landed on them like a slap across the face—loud, sharp, undeniable.

So I hadn't lied.

I hadn't been the one causing all the trouble.

I had only been trying to protect myself.