The knife slides between my ribs with a whisper. I don't scream. I can't. My sister's hand is clamped over my mouth, her eyes—so like mine, green and wide—filled with something that might be regret. But not enough regret to stop. "I'm sorry, Elara," she breathes against my ear. "But he chose me. He always wanted me." Behind her, Marcus stands in the doorway of our bedroom. My bedroom. The one I share with my fiancé. His golden hair catches the lamplight, making him look like an angel. He's always looked like an angel. "Make it quick, Celeste," he says, checking his watch. His voice is bored. "We have the charity gala in an hour." The charity gala. The one we were supposed to attend together. The one where he was going to announce our wedding date. My sister twists the knife, and this time I do scream, but it comes out as a gurgle. Blood fills my mouth, hot and metallic. "I loved you," I try to say, looking at Marcus. But he's already turning away, already moving on, as if I'm already gone. The last thing I see is Celeste's face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lowers me to the floor. "He never loved you," she whispers. "He told me everything. How you were just a means to an end. How I was the one he wanted all along." Then darkness swallows me whole. But instead of death, there's light. Blinding, searing light that burns through my closed eyelids and forces me awake with a gasp. I'm sitting up, my hand flying to my side, searching for the wound. But there's nothing. No blood. No pain. Just smooth skin beneath my silk nightgown. My silk nightgown. The blue one I threw away two years ago after Marcus said it made me look washed out. My heart hammers against my ribs as I look around. I know this room. The cream wallpaper with tiny roses. The antique vanity my mother gave me. The window seat where I used to read before Marcus said it was a waste of time. This is my old bedroom. In my father's house. The house I moved out of three years ago. "No," I whisper, stumbling out of bed. My legs are shaky, uncertain. I catch sight of myself in the vanity mirror and freeze. The woman staring back at me is younger. Her face is fuller, less haunted. Her hair is longer, falling in waves past her shoulders instead of the severe bob Marcus preferred. And her eyes—God, her eyes still have light in them. This is me. Three years ago. Before the engagement. Before the isolation. Before Marcus slowly, methodically destroyed everything I was. A knock at the door makes me jump. "Miss Elara?" My father's housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, peers inside. She's alive. She's alive and well and not lying in a hospital bed after her mysterious fall down the stairs. The fall that happened six months into my engagement, right after she tried to warn me about Marcus. "Your father requests your presence in his study. The Blackwood brothers have arrived." The Blackwood brothers. The memory slams into me with the force of a freight train. Today is the day. The day I have to choose. My father, desperate to merge his tech company with the Blackwood empire, had arranged for me to meet both sons. Marcus and Damien. I would choose one, and the merger would be sealed with marriage. In my previous life, I chose Marcus. Everyone said I should. He was charming, handsome, beloved by everyone who met him. His smile could light up a room. His laugh was infectious. He seemed perfect. His brother Damien was the opposite. Scarred from a childhood accident, cold and distant, with a reputation for ruthlessness in business. People whispered about him at parties. Crossed the street to avoid him. Said he was dangerous. I chose the golden son, and it destroyed me. "Miss Elara?" Mrs. Chen prompts gently. "I'm coming," I manage, my voice hoarse. I dress in a daze, pulling on a simple green dress that Marcus would have hated. Too bright, he would have said. Too attention-seeking. But right now, I don't care what Marcus would have thought. Marcus is going to kill me. The thought crystallizes as I walk down the stairs, my hand trailing along the polished banister. Maybe not today, maybe not next year, but eventually. He and Celeste planned it. They were patient. They waited until I was completely isolated, until everyone who might have protected me was gone or pushed away. Until I had nothing and no one. The study door is open. I can hear voices inside—my father's booming laugh, another voice smooth as honey. Marcus. My stomach turns, and I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself. "Ah, there she is!" My father beams at me, very much alive, very much not dead from the heart attack that took him a year into my marriage. The heart attack the doctors said was brought on by stress. The stress of watching his daughter's marriage crumble, though he never knew the full truth. "Elara, come meet our guests." I force myself to step inside, and there they are. Marcus stands by the window, bathed in afternoon sunlight. He's just as beautiful as I remember, with his perfect features and warm brown eyes. Those eyes that could look so loving in public and so cold in private. He smiles at me, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. "Miss Elara," he says, moving forward with easy grace. "I've heard so much about you." His hand reaches for mine, and my body moves on instinct, jerking back before he can touch me. The room goes silent. Marcus's smile falters for just a fraction of a second before returning, but there's something sharp in his eyes now. Something calculating. "I'm sorry," I stammer, hating how weak I sound. "I'm not feeling well." "Perhaps some water?" another voice suggests. I turn, and for the first time, I really look at Damien Blackwood. He's standing in the corner, half in shadow, as if he's trying to disappear. The scar runs from his left temple down to his jaw, a pale line against his tanned skin. His eyes are gray, cold as winter stone, and fixed on me with an intensity that should frighten me. But I remember something else now. A memory I'd buried. At my engagement party, when I'd drunk too much champagne trying to calm my nerves, I'd stumbled on the terrace. Strong hands had caught me, steadied me. I'd looked up into gray eyes filled with something I couldn't name. "You don't have to do this," Damien had said quietly. "You can still walk away." But I'd laughed it off, pulled away from him, gone back to Marcus and his warm smiles and pretty lies. Three months later, Damien stopped coming to family dinners. Six months later, I heard he'd moved to the London office. I never saw him again. "Water would be good," I hear myself say. "Thank you." Damien nods and moves to the sidebar, and I notice the way he walks—carefully, as if he's used to people flinching away from him. As if he's learned to make himself small in spaces. My father clears his throat. "Well, this is a bit awkward, but let's address the elephant in the room, shall we?" He chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. "Elara, you know why the Blackwood brothers are here. The merger between our companies would be beneficial for everyone involved, but they've agreed that the decision of which brother to marry should be yours." Marcus steps forward again, more cautiously this time. "I know this is unusual, Miss Elara. But I hope you'll give me a chance to prove that I could make you happy." The words are pretty. Perfect. Rehearsed. I know what comes next because I lived it. He'll court me with flowers and poetry and grand gestures. He'll make me feel like the center of his universe. He'll be everything I ever dreamed of. Until the wedding. Until the door closes and the mask comes off.