Chapter 1

My mother only remembered she had a real daughter when the hospital called with a critical condition notice.

Back then, when my stepsister broke something, she slapped me instead.

That slap made me realize the truth and pushed me even further away.

I left home twelve years ago. From that day on, I was dead to her.

Now she was lying in a hospital bed, still pretending we ever had a loving bond.

She said she was wrong, that she wanted to make things right, and begged me to come back and see her off.

I didn't shed a tear or say a word. I just calmly mailed her a package.

There were no gifts inside, only the bus ticket from all those years ago.

The note inside was just a single line: [You forgot, Mom. The bus I took that day... There was never a return ticket.]

*****

Afternoon sunlight sliced through the studio's massive floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting sharp geometric shapes across the cold concrete floor.

Tiny specks of dust floated in the air, mixing with the slightly bitter scent of coffee beans.

Everything was perfectly quiet.

I was reviewing a design for the mall's atrium, my fingers sliding across the cold tablet, marking the spots that needed fixing.

My phone suddenly buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number from the hometown I'd tried so hard to forget.

My brow furrowed instinctively, a physical wave of revulsion rising from my gut.

Twelve years had gone by. Everyone and everything from that place felt like artifacts from a life I barely remembered.

I swiped to answer, but stayed silent, waiting for the caller to speak first.

There was a burst of noise on the other end, then a man's voice, phony and urgent, forced its way into my ear. "Luna? It's me, Ethan. Your mom's dying. Get back here, now."

Ethan Martin, my stepfather.

I'd know that voice anywhere.

That commanding tone, that sense of entitlement, like I was still that sixteen-year-old girl he could control at will.

I didn't even lift my eyelids, my gaze locked on the design plans. My tone was so flat, it might as well have been about the weather.

I said, "You got the wrong person."

I hung up without a second thought.

With a tap, I blocked the number without hesitation.

It was seamless, not a hint of doubt.

Silence settled back over everything.

But that nerve that had been struck was still humming in my mind.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a text.

It was from another unknown number.

[It's Ella. Mom really wants to see you one last time. Please, I'm begging you.]

That text was like a poisoned needle, stabbing right into the most tender, festering part of my heart.

I stared at the screen, letting out a cold, mocking smile.

The floodgates of memory burst open, and suddenly I was drowning again in that sweltering summer afternoon from twelve years ago, the air thick with the stench of decay.

At sixteen, I was slammed against the wall by my mother, Emily, her grip so fierce that it felt like she wanted to crush me.

She was shockingly strong, her nails nearly digging into my flesh, threatening to break the skin.

In the center of the living room, the expensive crystal vase Ethan had brought back from overseas lay shattered, its shards glinting coldly across the floor.

Ella, my so-called sister, was curled up in Ethan's arms, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, but her slender finger was accusingly pointed right at me.

She said, "It was her... She pushed me... The vase... It broke..."

I shook my head desperately, trying to explain. "It wasn't me. She was the one who lost her grip."

But no one listened.

Emily's eyes burned with a fire I couldn't understand: anger, fear, and, most of all, a pathetic eagerness to please.

She raised her hand and, with all her strength, slapped me hard across the face.

Smack!

The sharp sound rang in my ears, making my head buzz.

The whole world went silent.

All I could hear were her wild screams, each word slashing at my dignity, one cut at a time. "How could you be so vicious? Why can't you accept her? She's your sister."

Ethan held Ella, who was trembling, and gave me a contemptuous glance, a smug, triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

At that moment, the burning pain on my face was nothing compared to the raw tear in my chest.

I looked at the woman who shared my blood, and suddenly, she felt like a stranger.

She wasn't my mother.

She was just Ethan's wife, Ella's stepmother.

And me? I was just an extra in this "perfect family," a nuisance, something disposable, someone they could toss aside whenever they wanted.

I could hear my heart breaking.

Back to reality.