Chapter 2

Mia lifted her head from Mom’s shoulder. Her lower lip quivered. She pressed a pale, trembling hand over her heart, gasping dramatically.

"I shouldn't even be alive," she choked out, her voice dripping with manufactured despair. "Every time I see Chloe shining up there on that stage, getting the applause, it just reminds me of what I am. A sickly, broken burden. I'm just dragging everyone down. I should just die and give you all peace."

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tyler stormed into the living room, his face flushed a dark, angry red. He wore his varsity jacket, smelling of cheap beer and misplaced righteousness. He took one look at Mia's tear-stained cheeks and zeroed in on me.

"Are you happy now, Chloe?" Tyler yelled, closing the distance between us. He shoved a thick finger inches from my nose. "You just had to show off, didn't you? You know her heart is failing! You know she can't take the stress! You purposely triggered the patient just to inflate your own massive ego!"

I slapped his hand away hard. My jaw tightened so tightly my teeth ground together. This was my older brother. The same guy who, barely a year ago, used to shove my recital videos into his frat brothers' faces at tailgates. My sister is gorgeous and dances like a fucking angel, he used to brag, chest puffed out with arrogant pride. He used my talent for his own clout.

Now, I was completely useless to him.

Tyler wheeled around. He snatched his aluminum Easton baseball bat leaning against the entryway console. He didn't hesitate. He marched straight toward the corner of the living room, right toward the towering glass display case that held my entire life.

He swung the bat with brutal, unhinged force.

The glass exploded. A deafening crash echoed through the vaulted ceiling as jagged shards rained down on the imported hardwood. Tyler brought the bat down again. And again. The heavy metal connected with my silver cups, denting them into grotesque shapes. Crystal plaques shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.

I stood my ground, my fingernails biting into my palms. Every strike of that bat hit a raw nerve. Ten years of my life sat in that case. Ten years of waking up at four in the morning while they slept. Six hours of daily, agonizing drills at the barre. I danced through torn ligaments, blistered toes, and fractured ribs. I bled for every single one of those honors.

Tyler reduced a decade of my blood, sweat, and agony to a pile of scrap metal in under ten seconds.

I stared at the wreckage. A large shard of mirror-backed glass rested against the baseboard, perfectly angled toward the couch. I looked at the reflection.

Mia was still huddled against Mom, supposedly wracked with uncontrollable sobs. But in the mirror, her mask slipped entirely. A sharp, vicious smirk stretched across her pale face. Her eyes gleamed with pure, unfiltered triumph. She loved this. She thrived on it. She loved watching my world burn to the ground for her entertainment.

"Tyler, watch the glass!" Mom shrieked. She didn't yell to stop his violent psychological abuse. She threw her arms around Mia, shielding her precious golden child from the stray splinters.

Dad finally stepped forward. He bypassed the destroyed case entirely, ignoring the thousands of dollars of damage his son just caused. He invaded my personal space, towering over me, his features twisted in absolute disgust.

"Look at what you did," Dad snarled, his voice vibrating with rage. "It is your fault she is getting worse! You constantly flaunt your health and your little hobbies in her face. You are a selfish monster with zero empathy."

He jabbed a finger toward the heavy oak front door. "If you ever trigger your sister's condition again, you can pack your bags and get the hell out of my house. We don't tolerate abusers under this roof."

The room fell dead silent, save for Mia's pathetic, forced sniffles and Tyler's heavy breathing.

Even with the absolute certainty of my second life running through my veins, a dull, heavy ache struck my chest. These were my parents. The people who were supposed to protect me, to love me unconditionally. Their complete hatred, their eager readiness to throw me away over a fabricated illness, still managed to sting. Blood meant absolutely nothing in this house.

I let the pain hit me. I let it burn. Then, I weaponized it. The ache hardened into cold, razor-sharp armor. I was done bleeding for people who wanted me dead.

I took a deliberate step forward. My combat boots crunched loudly over the broken glass, grinding my shattered Juilliard dreams into the floorboards. I didn't flinch. I kept my chin high, radiating pure, prickly defiance.

I kicked a dented gold medal across the floor. It clattered sharply against Dad's expensive leather shoe, leaving a scratch on the polish.

"Whatever," I snapped, my voice laced with a biting, venomous edge that made them all flinch.

Dad blinked, clearly stunned by my complete lack of a tearful apology. Tyler tightened his grip on the bat, his jaw dropping in confusion.

I looked straight through my father, my eyes locking dead onto Mia's fake, teary gaze. I let a cold, mocking smile touch my lips, letting her know I saw right through the bullshit.

"I don't care."