Chapter4

"Transferred?"

"A new buyer made an offer, and our boss approved it directly. We won't be able to arrange another spot for you until next year."

"I paid for it in full a year ago. The contract clearly states—"

"Contracts are dead paper; people are alive." A scoff crackled over the line. "Your niche sat empty for ages, and we never saw you put anything inside. They're just pet ashes, not nearly as important as you think. The new buyer said if you make a fuss, he's willing to negotiate triple the compensation."

The line went dead.

I stood up and put on a heavy winter coat. My fingers trembled the entire cab ride to the cemetery.

Rounding the row of cypress trees, I saw the glass door to niche C-8 wide open. My nameplate had been tossed onto the ground, marred by a deep gouge. A pristine new bronze plaque was already mounted in its place: Artemis Vanderbilt—Forever the Racing Queen.

Chloe stood nearby, cradling a polished wooden urn in her arms, directing a worker to adjust the plaque's angle.

"What are you doing?"

She turned around, her face devoid of surprise. "Oh, you're here, Sis. The priest said this spot has great energy. It's perfect for Artemis's reincarnation."

"I paid for this spot in full a year ago."

"I know," she smiled. "The new buyer they mentioned on the phone? That was me."

"Can you please... give it back to me?" I looked at her pleadingly.

Chloe let out a low laugh. "Aren't you dying soon anyway?" She tilted her head. "What does it matter where you end up? A mass grave works, scattering them in the ocean works too. After I asked those inmates in prison to take such good care of you, you're lucky you even made it out alive."

I slapped her hard across the face. "I spent six years in prison for you! My ankle is destroyed! My dancing career is dead! I am dying—why would you do this to me—"

Chloe shrieked, and the wooden urn slipped from her grasp, crashing onto the pavement. Snow-white ashes spilled everywhere.

"Sister, why are you always targeting me? Why would you do this to Artemis..."

"Apologize to Chloe."

Allen's cold voice cut through the air from behind me.

I looked at him, and suddenly, I went completely quiet.

"Allen. I have terminal cancer. The doctor said I'm going to die."

"What did you just say, Victoria?"

"It's fine, Allen," Chloe interrupted, dropping to her knees in the dust to scoop up the ashes. "I'll just pick it all up. Sister didn't mean it."

Sobbing, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and held it up. "Sister, just buy a pet urn niche and let it go. I checked your prison medical records—you were perfectly healthy. Why do you still have to lie to us?"

Allen snatched the paper from her and scanned it, then looked up at me.

"You loved faking pain in prison. Are you really still putting on an act?"

A sickening, metallic sweetness surged up my throat. "Yeah, I'm acting," I said coldly.

Smack.

The force of his palm whipped my head to the side. Allen's hand froze mid-air, his eyes rimmed with red.

"Victoria..."

"Don't touch me."

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. The bridge of my nose started to burn. I couldn't tell if it was from the blow, or if my body was simply finally breaking down.

I stared at him and at Chloe kneeling on the ground.

"None of you... I don't want a single one of you anymore!"

I stumbled backward and walked away. As I stepped through the front gates, heavy drops of blood from my nose splattered against the concrete, leaving a trail. I never looked back.

Allen stood frozen in front of C-8, clutching my scarred nameplate.

An old man in green cargo pants hobbled over, leaning heavily on a push broom. He stared at the scratched metal for a few seconds.

"The staff messed up. C-8 isn't for sale, not for any price."

Allen frowned. "Old man, it's just a wall niche. I'll pay triple the compensation."

The old man shook, his voice trembling with furious outrage. "You rich people... fighting a dying girl for her final resting place. Aren't you afraid of karma? Triple the compensation? It wasn't money she wanted."

"Who’s dying—"