Chapter 3

A scream ripped from my throat, but he slammed his hand over my mouth, stifling the sound. I could only heave and whimper against his palm.

"Why the hell are you overreacting?" he hissed, his eyes filled with the kind of revulsion you'd save for a stray dog. "Since you used your 'talent' as a weapon to make Stella feel small, I guess you don't really need these anymore."

He systematically crushed my fingers, one by one, slow and deliberate.

I heard the bones give. The sound of dry kindling snapping, the crunch of gravel under a boot, the echo of my own desperate scratching against the basement walls.

Five fingers—shattered into useless pulp.

I slumped onto the piano bench, drenched in a cold sweat, the agony so absolute I couldn't even draw breath to scream. My vision tunneled into black, and a high-pitched whine roared in my ears.

Stella drifted over and knelt in front of me. With her back to Michael, the corner of her mouth quirked into a sharp, jagged little smirk.

She mouthed two words. "You lose."

Then she spun around, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. "Michael, oh my god, how could you... her hand..."

"She earned every bit of it," Michael said, wiping his palms on a silk handkerchief as if he'd just touched a gutter rat. "Stella, don't waste your pity. Come on, let's go get some gelato and clear your head."

They walked out.

I was left alone in the conservatory. Moonlight hit the keys, illuminating my hand—my five fingers were mangled at impossible angles, looking like a handful of snapped kindling.

I looked at the Steinway.

Three months ago, I was at this bench. Stella had come in, acting like she wanted a lesson. I tried to show her the scales, but she purposefully hit the wrong notes, then fled the room sobbing, telling everyone I'd mocked her for being "untalented."

Michael had stormed in then, accusing me of "flaunting my pedigree" to make her feel small.

Back then, my hands were whole. I could play "Clair de Lune" in my sleep. My fingers used to glide over the ivory, weightless and precise, like light hitting water.

Now, the instrument was just a tombstone.

I tried to lever myself up with my left hand. My right arm just hung there, dead and swaying—a heavy, useless slab of meat.

I'd found a secret latch under the piano bench by pure luck weeks ago. Tucked inside was a leather-bound journal—Stella's.

I fumbled with it, my left hand awkward and clumsy as I dragged it out.

I forced the cover open.

"The real heiress dragged her 'white trash' self home today. She's a total cliché, but she can actually play—it's infuriating. I have to make Michael despise her."

"It's working! I played the victim, and Michael tore into her right in front of me. The look of pure shock on her face? I nearly choked trying not to laugh."

"Phase two is a go. Meeting Jack at the marina tomorrow—he's helping me stage the 'accident.' Once I'm officially a ghost, I'm going to sit back and watch them destroy her."

The final entry was a jagged scrawl. "Suicide note is ready. I'm pinning the whole thing on her. When I 'resurrect' with amnesia, she'll be a marked woman. I'm taking every single thing that's hers."

My hand started to vibrate.

It wasn't the agony this time; it was a cold, white-hot rage. It scorched through my veins like gasoline, making my teeth chatter.

My entire life had been dismantled for a cheap performance.

The door groaned on its hinges. Mom walked in, stopping dead when her eyes hit the floor.

"Vivian, your hand..." she said.

"It's a ruin," I said, my voice flat. "Michael pulverized the bone."

Her face went through a kaleidoscope of guilt before settling into a weary sigh. "Michael is just... fiercely loyal to Stella. You have to understand his perspective. Don't hold a grudge, okay?"

"I don't hold anything," I said, staring her down. "Mom, I want out."

She pulled back, her brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm leaving the Shaws," I said. "You all clearly hate the sight of me. Isn't this what everyone wants?"

"Absolutely not!" Her voice turned shrill, the maternal mask slipping. "Do you have any idea what that would look like? The headlines? 'Shaws Drive Out Prodigal Daughter'? You'd make us a pariah in this town. We'd be social suicide."

I knew it.

It was never about me; it was about the Shaw brand.

"Then what's the play here?" I asked.

She exhaled, her shoulders dropping as if she'd finally won. "Just play nice. Let Stella have her win. Once the press moves on to the next scandal and the air clears, we'll revisit this."

She stepped toward me, reaching out to stroke my hair. I flinched, pulling back.

"Mom," I said, "if I proved to you that Stella's 'suicide' was a total fabrication designed to bury me, would it matter?"

Her hand stalled in the air.

"There you go again," she said, her voice turning brittle. "Vivian, the girl has amnesia, and you're still trying to prosecute her?"

"I have proof," I said.

She asked, immediately, "What proof?"

I hoisted the diary with my left hand.

She didn't even look at the ink. She snatched the book, her fingers working with a frantic, desperate strength as she shredded the pages.

"This is garbage!" she hissed. "I'm so disappointed in you, Vivian. How desperate are you that you'd manufacture a fake diary just to frame her?"

The torn scraps fluttered down like confetti at a funeral.

I looked at her and felt the last spark of hope flicker out. I was hollowed out, too exhausted to even bother with the rage.

"Am I free to go?" I asked again.

"Go to your room!" she snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the door. "Don't you even think about stepping outside until I say so!"

She turned on her heel and marched out.

I sat on the bench, my right hand a useless weight at my side, my left hand clutching a few surviving scraps of paper.

The moonlight hit the floor, illuminating a jagged line of Stella's handwriting.

"When I come back with 'amnesia,' she'll be the murderer."

I whispered the words to the empty room, a jagged laugh breaking from my chest.

If they wanted her so badly, they could have her.

I'd be the perfect one to help them.

My room sat at the end of the hall, a cramped walk-in that used to hold the Christmas trees. It barely fit a twin mattress and a dresser. The window faced a brick wall, so I never saw a lick of sun.

After Stella returned, she pulled some stunt about being afraid of the dark and demanded the master suite—the biggest room in the house, my room. Michael Shaw told me to clear out. When I refused, he shoved me down the staircase.

And that is how I ended up in the closet.