Chapter 1

Cordelia's POV

The night before the gala where my rich family would finally claim me as their real daughter, I sent an email to my future self.

Have Mom and Dad really accepted me?

Does Spencer still hate me?

Julian and I are married by now, right?

A second later, my inbox exploded.

Dozens of photos, one after another, loading faster than I could scroll. Every single one was Julian—my Julian—wrapped around Camille. Kissing her. Cradling her face like she was something precious.

The blood drained out of me.

Then the voice messages started. And the voice was mine—older, hoarse, recorded somewhere I didn't recognize, and raw with panic.

"They're going to kill you—"

"Mom and Dad want to make it up to Camille, so tomorrow at the gala they're going to stage an accident. A fire. They burn your legs on purpose—you'll be crippled, Cora. In a wheelchair for the rest of your life—"

"Spencer leaks the videos. He says the only way Camille gets to be an Ashcroft again is if you're destroyed—"

"And Julian—he's so terrified you'll expose the truth and hurt her that he's the one who has you committed. He signs the papers himself."

The last message was barely a voice at all. Just breath, thin and failing.

"Cora. Don't go back."

——

The words had barely faded when the door creaked open behind me.

I jabbed my thumb at the screen and killed it.

My mother—I was still getting used to calling her that—stood in the doorway with a mug of warm milk in both hands, hovering like she was afraid to wake me.

"Cora, sweetheart. Still up? Drink this first."

The warmth touched my fingers, and suddenly the photos were back behind my eyes. In those attachments, half my face had been burned into raw, weeping flesh. My legs had been withered and twisted under a blanket, curled into something I couldn't bear to look at.

She saw the color leave my face. Her voice softened.

"Is this about Camille again? You're worried we can't let her go?" She sat on the edge of the bed. "You don't need to be. She's being taken care of—somewhere she can't hurt anyone. Once the gala's over, it's final. After tomorrow, you're the only daughter in this house. We don't blur those lines, Cora."

My eyes stung.

Because it was true. The day the DNA results came back, the day they brought me home, they'd cleared out every trace of Camille so her things wouldn't hurt me. And when it all came out—that Camille had been the one behind years of bullying—they hadn't hesitated. They'd let Julian have her committed.

People who'd do that for me… how could they be the people in that email? Burn my legs for Camille's sake? Hand my future to her on a silver platter?

Maybe Camille had sent the whole thing herself. One last, desperate trick to scare me away from coming home.

The thought let me breathe again. Barely.

"Okay," I said. "Thank you, Mom."

She smiled and smoothed my hair back. "Oh—your gown came. Tell me you love it."

One of the staff carried it in and held it up.

The second I saw it, my smile froze.

It was all wrong. Smothered in heavy, old-fashioned crystals. A full size too big. Matronly. The kind of thing you'd put on a dowager, not a woman in her twenties. In every possible way, it was the opposite of anything that would suit me.

My heart gave one hard, uneven thud.

She didn't notice. She kept stroking my hair, walking me through tomorrow's schedule in that warm, careful voice. At the end, she said:

"Camille has a temper. If she causes a scene tomorrow—if she tries to take anything that's yours—you come straight to me. I won't let some impostor walk all over my daughter."

Then she pressed the gown into my arms. "This is the first dress I've ever given you. Wear it tomorrow. For me. Promise?"

I forced a smile. Inside, I was falling.

She'd been gone a long time before I noticed my hands still wouldn't stop shaking. The photos, the voices—they hung over the room like a fog that wouldn't lift.

My phone buzzed.

Julian.

My finger trembled as I answered.

He caught it instantly. He always did. "Cora? What's wrong? Did someone upset you?"

I opened my mouth. I almost told him everything.

But the photos came back—his hands, her face, all that tenderness—and my throat closed up.

My silence only made him more worried. "Don't be scared. I'm coming over right now."

After he hung up, I couldn't make myself move. Then, outside, an engine cut off. Quick footsteps up the drive. The moment I opened the door, he pulled me straight into his chest.

"You scared the hell out of me."

His warmth wrapped all the way around me, as familiar as anything in the world—and my whole body went stiff. Because beneath his cologne was something else. A faint, lingering trace of heavy jasmine and sweet vanilla.

Camilla’s perfume.

My stomach turned, and I didn't know why.

He thought I was shivering from the cold. He let go and jogged back to the car for an insulated bag.

"I brought you something. I know you didn't eat." He pressed it into my hands. "Seafood chowder, the mild kind. I had the kitchen make it so it's easy on your stomach. Finish it and get some sleep, okay?" He ruffled my hair. "I have to drive to Boston early for a competition—it's a big one, I can't miss it. I can't stay long tonight." He kissed my forehead. "Wait for me. Just a few days."

And then he was gone, back down the steps.

I stood there holding the bag, every one of those photos still playing on a loop in my head. Before I could stop myself, I was following him—down the stairs, out into the dark.

From the far end of the driveway, I watched his passenger door swing open—and Camille practically threw herself across the front seat, winding her arms around his neck.

"You were in there forever. I'm freezing out here!"

His face was stone. But his arm still came up around her, automatic, like a reflex he hadn't chosen.

"I told you to wait at the hospital. You never listen." His voice was low and cold—and somehow still careful with her. "Camille. One bowl of soup for Cora doesn't undo what you did."

Her eyes went red and glassy on cue. "You think I want to be the villain? If you'd never fallen for her, none of this would've happened to me! I lost my parents. I lost my brother. I lost my name because of her—my reputation, my future. I had to drop out. I don't even have a degree. And it's still not enough? Do I have to die before everyone's satisfied? Fine. She can have that too—"

She shoved the door open and bolted for the road.

Julian lunged and caught her, both arms locked around her waist, dragging her back. I stood in the dark, eyes burning, watching them struggle—and then Camille twisted around and kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

He melted into her with a sound I'd never heard him make—half sob, half surrender. "Stop," he breathed against her mouth. "Stop talking about dying. Even if no one else takes care of you, I will."

I pressed a hand to my chest, like I could hold myself together from the outside. I couldn't breathe.

I watched the car pull away. Only then did I take out my phone.

I scrolled to a number I'd saved but never meant to use. My old professor. Every year, her department nominated one student for a government research institute—a strange, sealed-off kind of place. Once you went in, you cut all contact with your family. Your name, your history, your face—all classified. As far as the outside world knew, you'd been erased.

She'd offered me the nomination weeks ago. I hadn't been able to answer. I couldn't imagine giving up my family. Giving up Julian.

Now I typed it out, one letter at a time, and pressed send.

I'll take the placement.