Chapter 2

Teresa's POV

Back in our cramped but clean Brooklyn apartment, I gently pressed an ice pack against Lily's swollen forehead.

"Mommy, does it hurt?" Lily reached up to touch the scar on my face.

"Not anymore, baby." I kissed her little hand. "Just an old scar."

After putting Lily to bed, I sat alone in the dark living room and poured myself cheap whiskey.

The alcohol burned going down.

I closed my eyes as memories from five years ago crashed over me.

Back then, I was the most envied girl on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Dad owned half the real estate in the city, Mom was a famous artist. And I was married to brilliant, ambitious Clifford Ashford.

Everyone said we were perfect together.

Until Becky showed up.

Becky was an orphan my mother sponsored at some charity thing. Smart, sweet, always looking at me with those hungry eyes.

I loved that girl. Treated her like my little sister, bought her designer everything, brought her to all the right parties, even let her move into our guest room.

I had no idea I was feeding a viper.

Five years ago, the night of the fire, I'd gone home early with brutal morning sickness.

Around midnight, my phone rang.

"Teresa, RUN!" Dad's voice was raw terror.

By the time I reached the estate, flames had swallowed the entire house. Firefighters held me back, told me everyone inside was gone.

Mom. Dad. The staff. Seven people, dead in one night.

I lost it completely. Stood there screaming until Clifford showed up and carried me away.

But at the funeral, things didn't add up.

Dad's safe had been cleaned out. And Becky—who should've been at boarding school—showed up on the security cameras that night.

I tried telling Clifford what I suspected.

"Teresa, you're exhausted. You're grieving." He held me so gently. "You need rest. The doctor said stress could hurt the baby."

I didn't know he was playing me.

Two days later, men in white coats burst into my bedroom and shoved a needle in my arm.

I woke up in hell—some state psychiatric facility.

Clifford had signed the commitment papers. Diagnosis: severe depression with paranoid delusions.

In that nightmare, I gave birth to Noah.

They ripped him away the second he was born. Told me he'd died.

I screamed until my throat bled, but nobody listened. Everyone said I was "delusional."

Then Becky walked into my room.

She stood there smirking like she'd won the lottery. But her face—Jesus Christ, her face looked exactly like mine now.

"Hey there, Teresa." She held up a piece of broken glass, turning it in the light. "Recognize this? From your mom's precious crystal vase. Kept it as a keepsake."

Then she started talking, and every word broke me.

"I torched the place. Clifford helped scrub the security footage. You really think he loved YOU?" She laughed like it was the funniest thing ever. "He loved your father's money. Now I've got it, so guess who he picked?"

"And your precious baby boy," she traced my cheek with one finger, "he's gonna call me Mama and forget you ever existed."

Then she dragged that glass across my face.

I remember the pain ripping through me, blood flooding my eyes, and her final whisper:

"Why don't you just fucking DIE already?"

But I didn't die.

I survived like a goddamn cockroach. Three years in that hellhole until the feds shut it down for illegal experiments.

Took me a year to get back on my feet, change my name to Eva Rodriguez. Another year on the streets before I found Lily and took her in.

The past three years? I've been a ghost, collecting evidence.

I finished the whiskey. The burn cleared my head.

Clifford. Becky.

Payback time.

My old flip phone buzzed. Unknown number:

"Teresa, we need to talk."

I stared at the screen, cold smile spreading across my face.

Clifford. Couldn't stay away.

I didn't text back. Just powered off the phone and tossed it in the drawer.