Chapter 3

The heavy stench of hospital antiseptic vanished, replaced by the suffocatingly rich scent of truffle oil and fresh espresso.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hastings’ Tribeca penthouse. It was 10:00 AM. Less than twelve hours ago, I burned to death in a basement. Up here, it was a beautiful Tuesday morning. Mom and Dad were summering in the Hamptons, leaving the sprawling Manhattan property entirely to Liam.

Liam unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Mia limped inside, leaning her weight heavily against his side. She collapsed onto the twenty-thousand-dollar white Italian leather sofa with a dramatic, shuddering sigh. She looked like a war hero returning from the trenches, carrying the immense burden of a paper-cut-sized scratch on her ankle.

"Liam? My stomach hurts," she whined. She curled her legs up, clutching a cashmere throw pillow to her chest. "My blood sugar is crashing from the trauma. Can you make that lobster linguine? I really need comfort food right now."

Comfort food.

I floated near the marble kitchen island, glaring at her perfectly clean face. She survived a thousand-degree inferno and her biggest post-traumatic trigger was carb deficiency.

"I've got you, Mia," Liam said softly.

He walked into the massive chef's kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of his fresh Oxford shirt, and tied a linen apron around his waist. He tossed a block of butter into a copper skillet and grabbed a chef's knife. He started smashing heads of garlic with the flat of the blade.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter. The screen lit up. Madison. My best friend.

Liam frowned. He hit the speakerphone button and went back to chopping. "Madison. What."

"Where the hell is Chloe?" Madison's voice cracked through the quiet kitchen. She sounded completely unhinged. "Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I called the campus police. I called three different hospitals! Nobody has her on their check-in lists!"

Liam scraped the crushed garlic into the hot pan. It sizzled loudly. "Relax, Madison. She's throwing a tantrum. She's probably checked into the Four Seasons on my dad's dime just to scare us."

"She would call me! She always calls me!" Madison shouted. "There was a massive fire, Liam!"

"Look," Liam sighed. He leaned against the counter, using his arrogant, patronizing law-school voice. "Chloe spent ten years in the foster system. She grew up on the streets. She knows how to survive. Mia has a severe respiratory condition. I had to prioritize."

You prioritized a sociopath with a fake inhaler, you blind idiot.

"But you left her inside!" Madison cried.

"I left her because she pushed Mia into a wall to get to the stairs first," Liam snapped. His voice turned hard and cold. "Mia almost got trampled. So when Chloe finally decides to turn her phone back on and call you, tell her not to bother coming home until she's ready to apologize."

He ended the call. He didn't even wait for Madison’s response.

I slammed my ghostly fists onto the marble counter. They phased straight through the stone.

I pushed her?!

The memory hit me like a physical blow. I flashed back to the roaring heat of the basement. The ceiling groaning above us. A massive, flaming wooden support beam splintered and dropped. I lunged forward. I shoved Mia backward by her shoulders, pushing her out of the drop zone. The burning timber crashed down, crushing my legs against the concrete floor.

I screamed for her. I reached my blistering hand out. Mia scrambled up the stairs, completely unharmed. She looked down at me. Our eyes met. Then she kicked the heavy metal fire door closed and jammed the wooden doorstop under it.

"You lying bitch!" I screamed at the living room.

Mia was scrolling through TikTok on the sofa, popping a green grape into her mouth. She looked entirely unbothered.

Liam picked up his phone. He opened the Hastings Family group chat. His thumbs flew across the keyboard, typing out a quick, sanitized summary of the night. He mentioned the fire. He detailed his heroic rescue of Mia. He explicitly included the lie about me shoving her.

Three seconds later, a voice memo popped up from Eleanor Hastings. Our mother.

Liam tapped play. Her crisp, patrician voice echoed off the imported kitchen tiles.

"I am absolutely sick of this girl's feral behavior," Eleanor snarled through the speaker. "Pushing her sister in a fire? We bring her into our home, we give her our name, and she acts like a street thug. I am calling Amex right now. I am shutting off her credit cards. Let her freeze out there. She can crawl back and beg for forgiveness when she's hungry enough."

A text immediately popped up from Richard Hastings. Our father.

We don't have a daughter who manipulates her family like this. Disgusting. I’m booking the helicopter back to the city now. Tell Mia Daddy is coming to see her.

I hovered directly over the glowing screen.

My ethereal jaw tightened. A week ago, those words would have broken me. I would have cried. I would have begged them to look at me, to love me, to realize I was their actual flesh and blood.

Not today. The heat of the fire burned every last drop of pathetic desperation out of my soul. I didn't feel sad. I felt a savage, electric thrill of pure, unadulterated hatred.

They wanted to cut off my cards. They wanted to starve me out. They wanted me to crawl.

I leaned down close to the phone. My voice buzzed with phantom static, vibrating with venom.

"Go ahead, Eleanor," I sneered, flashing a razor-sharp smile at the empty air. "Cancel the Amex. See if it stops the county coroner from billing you for my dental records. Keep making your linguine, Liam. Enjoy the domestic bliss. I’m not crawling back. I’m coming back in a black zip-up bag, and I am taking this entire goddamn family down with me."