Chapter 2

We made our way to a grassy field on the outskirts of town. The wind was strong, tossing his hair around. He held the kite string, running with some effort, while I watched the butterfly kite soar higher and higher against the clear blue sky.

"Lena, look. It's free," he called out, turning to smile at me.

It was the first time he'd said my name in three years. But before I could respond, he suddenly doubled over, a deep, tearing cough wracking his body.

He quickly pulled out a white handkerchief and pressed it to his mouth, his whole body shaking violently, as if he were coughing up his insides.

I cried out and rushed over, trying to steady him, but he shoved me away. The white handkerchief fell onto the green grass, the blood on it wasn't bright red, but a blackish, swampy color. In the sunlight, the blood seemed almost alive, giving off a nauseating, swampy smell of rot.

Adrian said he was feeling tired and went to the study to rest. His face, usually pale, looked even more exhausted. I slipped past the security cameras in the hallway and crept up to the top floor.

It was the forbidden zone of Graves Manor, a locked attic that was always sealed shut. Adrian had warned me that even if the house was on fire, I was never allowed to set foot in there.

My palms were slick with cold sweat as I used a thin hairpin and some clumsy lock-picking skills I'd picked up online to fumble open the ancient padlock.

"Creak, " The sound of the door hinges turning was painfully loud in the dim hallway. I slipped inside and quickly closed the door behind me.

There were no gold bars or business secrets like I'd imagined. The air was thick with a heavy mix of incense and rotting paper. Photos covered every inch of the walls, so many it felt almost suffocating.

As I got closer, every hair on my body instantly stood on end.

Every single photo was of me.

There was a picture of me falling at the amusement park when I was three, another of me accepting an award on the podium at ten, and one of me lost in thought on the school playground at seventeen.

Each photo was taken from an angle that made it feel like someone had been secretly watching me from the shadows.

In the center of the room, on a mahogany table, sat an elegant frame. But instead of a photo, it held a yellowed, crumpled piece of paper.

It was the hospital's critical condition report from the car crash ten years ago, when I was eighteen.

My heart skipped a beat. In that accident, where even the doctors said I was a goner, I miraculously woke up on the third day, not a single broken bone, just a small dented scar on the back of my head.

My hands shaking, I flipped the notice over.

There was no official stamp on the back, just two lines scrawled in a fierce, almost sinister hand, the ink stained with what looked like dried blood:

[Fates switched. Only three years left.]

The date written was exactly three years ago, the day Adrian and I registered our marriage.

A chill raced up my spine. Three years ago, Adrian showed up at the Hart family's door, insisting on marrying me, the girl whose family was teetering on bankruptcy and whose reputation was in ruins. I thought he was just a tycoon swooping in for a bargain, but I never realized this marriage was a shadowy bargain from the very start.

"Only three years left..." I whispered, the image of that ticking timer on his wrist flashing through my mind.

If you count from the day we got married, in seven days, it'll be exactly three years.

That was his life, the time he wrestled from the hands of death just so I could survive. And now, the timer was about to hit zero.

"Ms. Hart, snooping into other people's secrets isn't exactly something to be proud of," a voice came from behind me.

I spun around and saw Dr. Quinn, Adrian's private doctor, the silent man who always lugged around a black wooden medical bag. He was already standing at the attic door, his gloomy face half-hidden in the shadows, messing with a syringe that looked bizarre, its barrel full of thick, dark green fluid.

"What is he doing?" I demanded, my voice raw as I pointed at the photos. "What do you mean by 'swapped destinies'? What is Adrian keeping from me?"

Dr. Quinn slowly stepped into the room, his gaze lingering on the notice lying on the table. He let out a cold, bone-chilling laugh. Ignoring my questions, he opened his medical bag and took out an old, dried oil lamp. Carefully, he dripped the thick, dark green liquid onto the wick, one drop at a time.

"I'm not saving him. I'm just keeping his flame burning," Dr. Quinn said, with a look that was both pitying and mocking as he stared at me. "Every minute this lamp stays lit, he suffers the agony of ten thousand needles piercing his heart. Ms. Hart, did you really believe your miracle recovery was a gift from above?"