Chapter 1

I faked my death. Then I had a brain tumor removed and lost every memory I'd ever had.

I don't remember the guardian who faked bankruptcy and bled me dry. I don't remember being forced to kneel in public, humiliated like a dog, just to amuse his precious adopted daughter.

I had full reconstructive surgery. I got married. I had a child. I built a normal life.

Three years later. A high-end baby boutique. I was picking out a onesie when a man blocked the end of the aisle.

He stared at me. The shopping bag slipped from his hand. "Kayla? God… you're really alive?"

He stepped forward. His voice shook. "Why didn't you come back to Donovan? He's been searching for you for three years. Everyone thought you were dead—"

Instinct took over. I moved the stroller behind me.

"Sorry," I said. "I had a brain tumor removed. I don't remember anything from before. Do I know you?"

He froze.

"What about Donovan? Donovan Reed—you don't remember him?"

"Who's Donovan?"

The silence that followed was sharp. The man's mouth opened and shut. He looked like he'd forgotten how to speak.

Something tightened in my chest. That name had struck something buried deep, something I couldn't reach.

I turned toward the window without thinking.

A man stood outside in the dark.

Tall. A dark gray overcoat. His features were carved hard under the streetlights. But his eyes were rimmed red.

He was staring at me. Like he was watching a corpse crawl out of its grave.

I didn't know him. But my hands were shaking.

The man—Marcus—told me Donovan Reed had been my guardian. The youngest billionaire on Wall Street.

The Reed family's investment firm "collapsed." Then he was diagnosed with ALS.

I dropped out of Cornell to take care of him. I borrowed from loan sharks. I shouldered every single medical bill alone.

Five years.

Debt collectors cracked my ribs. I never bought a single painkiller. I worked three jobs until I collapsed on the sidewalk. I never took a day off.

Every cent I earned went into his goddamn experimental drugs. Because the doctors said they might buy him a few more months.

Then one night, I was carrying trays at a five-star hotel ballroom in Manhattan. And I saw the man who was supposed to be rotting in a wheelchair.

He was wearing a bespoke suit. A Patek Philippe worth more than a house flashed on his wrist under the chandeliers.

He was standing straight. Holding a glass of whiskey. Laughing with his old friends.

"Donovan, you've been faking ALS for five years," his friend said. "Kayla nearly destroyed herself trying to save you. Don't you think this punishment game has gone far enough?"

***

Donovan swirled his glass.

"Almost. Kayla's too headstrong. She couldn't tolerate Peggy. Drove the girl into a depressive episode. How else was I supposed to teach her restraint?"

"Peggy's spent a few years in Europe. She's finally recovered. She's agreed to forgive Kayla. Soon, I'll have the medical team stage a 'miracle recovery.' She's suffered enough. She should have learned her lesson by now."

His friend was quiet for a moment.

"ALS is a terminal illness. You can't just 'recover.' You really think Kayla won't get suspicious?"

Donovan smiled.

"That naive girl. From the day I brought her home, she's believed every single word I've ever said. She's never doubted me. Not once."

"Peggy's an orphan. She's sensitive. Kayla's the older sister. She should have been yielding to her from the start. Everything I did was for her own good. I'll make it up to her later. Ten times over. A hundred times."

My wrists were trembling. My nails bit into my palms. Blood welled up, slow and warm, dripping onto the carpet.

But Donovan—there is no "later" for us.

Your terminal illness was a lie.

But the tumor in my head—that was real.

Marcus sighed. "You're cold, man. That girl—you raised her yourself. Top of her class at an Ivy League school. She dropped out because you said the word. She's barely in her twenties, and she looks twice that. She came to me a few days ago, begging to borrow money. Said your meds had run out. She was eight thousand short."

Donovan's face darkened. "Did you give it to her?"

"You gave a direct order. You think I'd dare?" Marcus shook his head. "She stood outside my apartment all afternoon. Passed out from low blood sugar. I didn't help her up. She woke up on her own. Used the wall to walk away."

What he didn't say: that day, I was holding a fruit knife to my own wrist.

I told him, Marcus, he's been without meds for seven days. He's coughing blood. If you don't lend me the money, I'll cut.

Red-eyed, he tore the knife from my hand. He shoved me out. Locked the door.

I never understood why he could be so cruel.

Now I know.

Donovan set his glass down. His voice went cold. "Listen carefully. Until Peggy returns from Europe, no one helps her. She can kneel and beg. She can collapse at your feet. No one so much as glances at her. This five-year punishment—not one day less. Anyone who upsets Peggy answers to me."

Silence in the private room.

Someone cleared their throat. "Aren't you afraid Kayla will find out the truth someday?"

"And what if she does?" Donovan snorted. "I raised her. I gave her her life. Peggy's different. She had nothing. She suffered so much. Giving her the best is the least I can do. I owe her."

"What's been said in this room stays in this room. If a single word leaks, don't blame me for what comes next."

I leaned against the wall. My legs were too weak to hold me.

Five years. I traded my future, my health, every drop of blood I had—for five years. And it was all a game. A game he designed for his adopted daughter.

My dropped degree. My debt. My shattered ribs. All it took was one frown from Peggy, and it became his throwaway line. "She deserved it."

The taste of copper filled my throat.

I wasn't the Kayla who lived for him anymore.

I knew I was dying. But I wouldn't let him know I died quietly.

I would make him know.

I just—I had to stand up straight first.

The door to the private room swung open.

I couldn't dodge in time. I turned and crashed into the wine manager. The tray tipped. A bottle of Romanée-Conti—a rare vintage, brought in by the guests themselves—shattered on the floor.

The manager's face twisted. He grabbed my arm, nails digging into my wrist, and dragged me into an alcove. His voice dropped to a hiss. "Do you know whose wine that was? Do you have any idea what it cost?"

His palm cracked across my face. My head hit the wall. A sharp, ringing buzz.

The doors to the private room flew open. Donovan walked out.

He didn't look at me. His arms opened wide. He caught the young woman who launched herself at him from the other end of the corridor.

"Why did you fly back by yourself? I told you I'd pick you up at the airport."

Peggy's laugh was bright and brittle. "I missed you! It's a surprise!"

I was on my knees in the broken glass. Wearing a mask. Less than six feet away.

Peggy had a diamond-covered Cartier bracelet on her wrist. Any single stone on it could have covered three months of Donovan's medication.

The manager approached with a cringing smile. "Mr. Reed, my deepest apologies. This clumsy server shattered the bottle."

Donovan's leather shoes stopped in front of me.

He looked down.

No makeup. Mask on. Hair scraped back with the cheapest elastic band. He didn't recognize a thing.

"Enough," he said, impatient. "She broke it. She can clean this carpet with her bare hands. If my sister steps on a single shard—she can swallow every last piece."

I knelt. My palms pressed into the carpet. Glass bit into my flesh. Slice after slice. Thin red lines.

Peggy let out a petulant whimper. She leaned into Donovan. "Donovan, my feet hurt."

"Drama queen."

He scooped her up into his arms. His leather shoe came down on my hand as he stepped past. He didn't pause.

He was gone.

I stayed there on my knees in the wreckage. Staring at my bleeding palms.

Then I laughed. Tears and blood from my nose ran down together, dripping onto the broken glass.

The manager recoiled. "Why is your nose bleeding so much?"

I stumbled to my feet. Wiped my face with my sleeve. The fabric bloomed red.

"Probably," I said, "because I'm dying."

I didn't look at him. I turned and walked. Step by step. Blood trailing behind me in a broken red line.

I pushed the door open. The sound of a ceramic bowl shattering came from the kitchen.

Donovan was crawling out of his overturned wheelchair. His arms shook as he tried to push himself up.

He saw me. His movements stopped for a fraction of a second. Then his head dropped. His eyes went red. "Kayla… I just wanted to heat up some milk for you… I hate this. I hate being like this." His voice cracked. "I just wanted—it was supposed to be warm milk. I can't even do that—"

Saliva ran from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. His hands trembled violently. His face was a perfect mask of despair and shame.

He looked exactly like a man dying of ALS.

I remembered something then. Donovan used to be a severe germaphobe.

He polished his cufflinks three times a day. His suits couldn't have a single wrinkle.

And this man—this exact man—had performed this filthy, humiliating act for five years. For Peggy.

In that moment, I almost wanted to take a knife and cut his chest open.

I said nothing. His shoulders sagged. "Kayla… are you disgusted by me? Just go… leave me… I can't stand you seeing me like this."

I walked over in silence. I righted the wheelchair. Helped him into it.

Then I filled a basin with warm water, wrung out a cloth, and wiped the filth from his face.

He grabbed my wrist. Stared at my shredded palm. "How did you get hurt? Who did this?"

I looked at the fake concern in his eyes.

"Someone who looks a lot like you," I said. "At the Hilton."