The knock on my apartment door comes at exactly 7:43 PM on a Tuesday. I know because I'm staring at the microwave clock, waiting for my instant ramen to finish heating. Three minutes. That's all I allow myself for dinner these days. Anything more feels like indulgence I haven't earned. I don't move toward the door immediately. Knocks mean trouble. Knocks mean the landlord wanting rent early, or neighbors complaining about noise I didn't make, or bill collectors who've somehow found this address too. The knock comes again. Firmer this time. I set down my chipped mug—the only dish I own that isn't plastic—and pad barefoot across the studio apartment. Twelve steps. I've counted them a thousand times. This place is so small I can touch both walls if I stand in the center and stretch. Through the peephole, I see him. Marcus Sterling. My hands don't shake. They used to, in the beginning. In those first months after everything fell apart, I would have trembled at the mere thought of seeing him again. I would have cried, screamed, begged him to listen. Now I feel nothing. I unlock the deadbolt—the only security feature that actually works in this building—and open the door halfway. "Cassandra," he says, and his voice cracks on my name like he's the one who's been broken. I study him with the detached interest of someone examining a stranger. He's wearing a suit that probably costs more than six months of my rent. His dark hair is styled perfectly. His watch catches the hallway's flickering fluorescent light. He looks exactly like what he is: a man worth millions who has never missed a meal or worried about keeping the heat on. "Yes?" I keep my voice flat. Neutral. I learned years ago that emotion only makes things worse. Something flickers across his face. Surprise? Disappointment? I can't tell anymore. I've forgotten how to read the expressions of people who live in that other world. The world I used to belong to. "Can I come in?" I step aside without answering. The apartment tells its own story. One folding chair. A mattress on the floor with sheets I wash by hand in the bathtub. A hot plate on the counter next to the microwave. No TV. No decorations. Nothing that isn't strictly necessary for survival. Marcus enters slowly, like he's walking into a crime scene. Maybe he is. Maybe this is where the Cassandra Hartwell he knew finally died. "You've been here for five years?" His voice is barely a whisper. "Four years and eight months in this unit. The previous places were worse." I close the door but don't lock it. He won't stay long. They never do when they see what I've become. He turns to face me, and I notice his eyes are red-rimmed. "Cassandra, I—" "Would you like water? It's all I have to offer." I gesture toward the sink where a single glass sits drying on a dish towel. "No. No, I..." He runs his hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling. "I came to ask you something." I wait. Waiting is easy. I've gotten good at it. Waiting in line at food banks. Waiting for paychecks from the three part-time jobs I work. Waiting for sleep that doesn't always come. "Do you understand now?" he asks. "Do you understand what you did wrong?" The question he's waited five years to ask. The question I knew would come eventually. "Yes," I say simply. "Yes?" He sounds almost angry. "That's it? Just yes?" "I understand what I did wrong. I'm sorry for the pain I caused. Is there anything else you need from me?" His face goes pale. "Cassandra, what happened to you?" "I learned." I keep my hands folded in front of me, posture perfect despite the exhaustion that lives in my bones. "I learned to be better. Isn't that what you wanted?" "Better? You call this better?" He gestures around the apartment, his voice rising. "You're living in poverty! You're—God, Cassandra, you look like you haven't had a proper meal in months!" "I eat sufficiently for my needs." "Sufficiently?" He steps closer, and I can see the moisture gathering in his eyes. Marcus Sterling, who looked at me with such hatred the day he sent me away. Marcus Sterling, who believed every word spoken against me without question. "You're a ghost. You're not even..." "I'm exactly what I need to be," I interrupt quietly. "Compliant. Agreeable. No longer a burden or a source of conflict. Isn't that what everyone wanted?" "No!" The word explodes from him. "No, this isn't—Cassandra, where's your fire? Where's the woman who used to argue with me about everything from politics to which restaurant to choose? Where's the person who laughed so loudly my business partners would complain? Where's—" "She was wrong," I say. "She caused pain to someone you both loved. She deserved to be corrected." The tears spill over then, tracking down his cheeks. I watch with clinical interest. I haven't cried in three years. I'm not sure I remember how. "I need you to come back," he whispers. "Come back where?" "Home. To your real life. To—" "This is my real life, Marcus." I gesture to the barren apartment. "This is who I really am. You showed me that." Before he can respond, another knock sounds at the door. Heavier. More authoritative. I open it to find my brother. Devon Hartwell stands in the hallway, looking every bit the powerful CEO he's become. His suit is even more expensive than Marcus's. His presence fills the cramped space like a storm cloud. His eyes sweep the apartment, land on me, and something in his expression shatters. "No," he breathes. "No, Cassie, what did we—" "Hello, Devon," I say with the same flat courtesy. "This is unexpected."