Chapter 2

I had nowhere to go.

The apartment Ethan had arranged for me—a tiny studio forty minutes from his penthouse—had been terminated. Vivienne had called the landlord the day before, informing him that "Mr. Ashford's charity case" was being removed. My belongings were already boxed and sitting by the dumpster when I arrived.

Three years of my life fit into two cardboard boxes. Some clothes, a thin blanket, a framed photo of Grandma, and the pearl earrings Ethan had given me on our first anniversary.

The earrings were fake. I found out a year later when I tried to pawn them for Grandma's medication. The jeweler had looked at me with such pity. "These are worth maybe eight dollars, sweetheart."

I kept them anyway. Because I was that pathetic.

I carried my boxes to the bus station and sat on the bench, trying to figure out where to go. Grandma had died three weeks ago. I'd buried her in a public cemetery with the cheapest plot I could find—$150 that I'd earned by cleaning Vivienne's friends' apartments on my hands and knees.

Vivienne had arranged that particular humiliation. She told Ethan I'd "volunteered" to help her friends as a gesture of goodwill, to improve my image within the family. Ethan had actually praised me for it. "See? Vivienne is such a positive influence on you, Selene. You should listen to her more often."

I scrubbed their toilets. I organized their closets. I washed their dogs. They paid me in coins, literally tossing them at my feet while recording videos on their phones, laughing.

The money was never enough. It was never, ever enough.

Grandma's condition had deteriorated rapidly over the last year. The hospital kept calling about unpaid bills, threatening to discontinue treatment. Every time I begged Ethan for help, Vivienne would intercept.

"She's lying again, Ethan. I checked—her grandmother's treatment is fully covered by public assistance. She's just trying to squeeze more money out of you."

It wasn't covered. Nothing was covered. I showed Ethan the bills once, and he glanced at them for half a second before Vivienne plucked them from his hand. "I'll handle this, Ethan. You have the board meeting."

She shredded them in front of me five minutes later.

"You really think a piece of paper is going to change anything?" she'd said, examining her manicure. "Ethan trusts me. He will always trust me. And you will always be nothing."

Grandma died on a Tuesday. Alone. I was across town, cleaning Vivienne's friend's apartment because they'd promised me $80—enough for one more day of medication.

By the time I got to the hospital, Grandma was already cold.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just sat beside her bed and held her hand for three hours until the nurses made me leave.

Now, sitting at the bus station with everything I owned in two boxes, I realized something with perfect clarity.

I had spent three years destroying myself for a man who never once looked at me—truly looked at me. Every sacrifice I made, every humiliation I swallowed, every time I chose his comfort over my own survival—none of it registered. I was invisible.

My phone rang. An unknown number.

I almost didn't answer. But something—instinct, maybe, or desperation—made me pick up.

"Is this Selene Moore?" A woman's voice, formal and clipped.

"Yes."

"Ms. Moore, I'm calling from the law offices of Hargrove & Chen. We've been trying to reach you for several months regarding a matter of inheritance. Could you come to our office at your earliest convenience? It's quite urgent."

I blinked. "Inheritance? I think you have the wrong person. I don't have any family left."

A pause. Then, carefully: "Ms. Moore, are you aware that your biological mother was Eleanor Sinclair?"

The name meant nothing to me. "No. I was raised by my grandmother. I never knew my parents."

Another pause, longer this time. "Ms. Moore, I strongly suggest you come to our office. There are things you need to know—things that will significantly change your circumstances."

I looked at my two cardboard boxes. At my hospital bracelet still on my wrist. At the bloodstain on my dress I hadn't had the chance to wash.

"I don't have money for the bus fare," I said quietly. No shame left. Shame was a luxury.

"I'll send a car immediately. Please share your location."

Thirty minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled up to the bus station. The driver stepped out, took one look at me, and his expression flickered—but to his credit, he said nothing. He simply opened the door and waited.

I loaded my two boxes into the trunk and climbed in.

I had no idea that this single car ride was about to unravel everything.