Reborn I Gave My Sister to the Don

My sister's voice came through the line, still slurred with sleep—soft, pouty, laced with that particular note of reproach she'd perfected over the years.

"Lily? It's the middle of the night. Why are you calling me?"

I tightened my grip on the phone. My fingers had gone ice cold.

"Leah, something's happened to George. He's in the top-floor room at the estate. Someone drugged him. It's bad."

The drowsiness vanished from her voice. "What? Who did this? Is he—"

"Don't ask questions. Just get here." I spoke each word slowly, deliberately. "Right now. You're the only one who can save him."

I hung up before she could say another word.

From the room at the end of the hall came sounds I knew too well—low, guttural growling, the splintering crash of furniture, the unmistakable noise of a man reduced to raw animal instinct.

In my past life, those sounds had mesmerized me. I'd convinced myself I was walking into that room as a savior.

I walked out as prey.

This time, I turned my back on that door and walked downstairs without a second glance.

The White estate at night was a particular breed of quiet—the kind that didn't soften the world but sharpened it. Every click of my heels on the marble echoed through the empty hall like a warning.

I poured myself a glass of red wine. Sat down on the living room sofa. Waited.

In my past life, I loved George White.

He was the youngest Don the underworld had ever seen—ruthless, brilliant, carved from ice and shadow. I'd worshipped him since I was fifteen years old. I told myself my love was epic. World-altering. The kind of devotion poets wrote about.

Then a rival family slipped something into his drink at a negotiation banquet.

It was designed to obliterate a man's mind—leave nothing behind but a feral, consuming need. Every doctor they summoned was useless.

That night, alone in that dark room, he grabbed my wrist. His voice was so ragged it barely sounded human.

I made the worst decision of my entire life.

I didn't pull away.

A month later, the pregnancy test came back positive.

George needed an heir. The family council forced him to marry me. So they could preserve his reputation and give the child a legitimate name.

I was stupid enough to believe that was fate finally paying me back for all those years of devotion.

But on the day of the wedding, Leah shattered.

She couldn't stand there and watch him marry me. So she ran—fled the estate alone, into the dark.

That night, a rival family's men were waiting.

She called George ninety-nine times before she died.

He was at the wedding. The wedding I'd begged for. So he didn't pick up. Not one call.

They brought back what was left of her body.

George looked at and his face went utterly still. Calmer than I'd ever seen him. No tears. No rage. Not a single word of blame.

I thought the worst was behind us.

Then came the night of our son's christening banquet.

George lifted the glass to my lips himself. Held it there. Watched me drink.

When the poison tore through me, I collapsed at the nursery door.

He stood over me. His eyes were emptier than a corpse's.

"If you hadn't been pregnant, I would never have married you."

"If there had been no wedding, I would have answered her calls."

"Leah's blood is on your hands."

"And you are going to pay for it."

That was when I finally, truly understood.

He had never loved me. Not for a single second.

He had simply taken every splinter of his grief over Leah and sharpened it into hatred—all of it pointed at me.

The shriek of tires against gravel snapped me back to the present.

Leah was here.

She burst through the front doors in her silk nightgown, an overcoat thrown haphazardly over her shoulders, her hair a tangled mess, her face taut with panic. She froze when she saw me lounging on the couch with a glass of wine.

"Lily?" Her eyes darted around the room. "Where's George?"

I swirled the wine. Tilted my chin toward the staircase. "Upstairs. Go."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you up there? I thought you were the one in love with him."

I let a small smile touch my lips. "Because I love him enough to know who he really needs tonight."

"Go, Leah. He's waiting."

The words landed exactly where I meant them to. Her posture shifted—shoulders back, chin lifting, a flush of something that looked terrifyingly like hope blooming across her cheeks. She didn't ask any more questions. She gathered her nightgown in both hands and rushed up the stairs, desperate hope riding her every step.

Seconds later, I heard the door open above me. Then a sharp, breathless gasp.

Then nothing.

I finished my wine in one slow swallow.

A life for a life. Old debts, collected in the present.

You owe me, Leah.

So now you get to walk through the hell I survived.