At eighteen, my stepbrother had me committed. "Cure yourself of loving anyone else," he whispered, "and I'll bring you home." Eight years later, I was his perfect monster, his devoted wife. Then his long-lost sister appeared at our door, and he sent me a single text: Don't touch her. So I smiled, slid a knife between her ribs, and replied, "Forgot, darling? I am your only sister. And your only love." 1 At eighteen, my stepbrother, Damien, had me committed. He wiped my tears away with a gentle thumb, but his voice was glacial. "Cure this sick habit of loving anyone else," he murmured, his breath ghosting over my ear. "Admit you only love me, and I'll bring you home." Over the next three years, I received six packages. First my boyfriend’s legs. Then his eyes. Then his hands. I received them even after I told Damien I’d finally fallen in love with him. On my twenty-first birthday, the final package arrived. It was the head. And I smiled. A genuine, heartfelt smile. I walked out of that institution and married Damien Blackwood. We had each other’s names tattooed over our hearts. For the next eight years, I mandated that our company’s thirty-thousand-strong workforce be exclusively male. We owned no female pets. Not so much as a goldfish. Damien was delighted. Until a young woman showed up at our door, claiming to be his long-lost sister. "You're just the placeholder," she sneered, her eyes raking over me. "How long are you going to cling to my brother now that I'm back?" A moment later, my phone buzzed. A text from Damien. Three words. Don't touch her. I laughed. I slid a knife into the girl's chest and texted him back. 【You seem to forget, darling. I am your only sister. And your only love.】 ... Outside the operating room, Damien slammed me against the wall, his eyes a raw, bloody red. "She was no threat to you! Why did you have to hurt her?" I hadn’t seen that particular brand of fury on his face in years. Not since my kidnapping, three years ago. I let a slow smile curve my lips. "Darling," I purred, "have you forgotten what you said when we got married?" He had held my hand that day like it was the most fragile thing in the universe, his voice a low, obsessive murmur. "Sister or lover, you are the only one I will ever have." Now, that same hand was crushing my wrist, his rage directed at me, all for another girl. Another sister. A flicker of guilt crossed his face before being consumed by fresh anger. "I just want to know when you became so vicious." "You taught me," I said, my smile widening to show my teeth. Eight years ago. In that white, sterile room. They served me my boyfriend’s head on a dinner tray. The sockets were empty, but I felt his gaze on me all the same. That was the day my heart finally hardened into something useful. "What's wrong, Damien? Are you not pleased with your creation?" He shoved me away, his voice dropping to absolute zero. "You better pray she makes it." A surgeon emerged, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's a miracle. The patient's heart is on the right side of her chest. The blade missed it completely." Damien's breath hitched in a sigh of relief. Then, a strange, small smile touched his lips. "Just like mine," he whispered. I froze for a second, then I smiled, too. His real sister. The true heiress. Of course. Even God played favorites. They wheeled her out on a gurney, pale and weak. When she saw me, she flinched violently, her voice filled with venom. "Damien! She tried to kill me! Call the police! She belongs in a cage!" Damien said nothing, just took her hand, his expression etched with concern. "A cage? Been there, done that. Three years," I said, stepping closer with a light laugh. "And that word—brother—is reserved for me." In one fluid motion, I pulled the decorative pin from my hair and lunged. But Damien was watching me. He was always watching me. He moved faster, his arm a blur as he knocked me to the ground. The next thing I knew, the cold muzzle of a gun was pressed against my forehead. "I gave you one chance," he seethed, his face a mask of fury. "Don't test me again." I was still processing the shock when the world went black. I woke up in our mansion. A prisoner. But no one dared lay a hand on me. Damien was a monster, but he was my monster. He never allowed anyone else to touch me. It worked to my advantage. I found a shovel in the garden shed, dug a deep hole, and stood in it. I took a selfie and sent it to him. "You have ten minutes to get here. Or I'll have them bury me alive." I watched the second hand on my watch. Nine and a half minutes. A supercar smashed through the estate gates. Damien leaped from the driver's seat, his forehead bleeding, and sprinted onto the lawn. His staff was frozen in terror. But the hole was empty. In its place was a freshly covered mound of earth. Damien’s body went rigid. "Where is she?" he roared. His men bowed their heads, silent. The pressure around him dropped, becoming something heavy and suffocating. He started clawing at the dirt with his bare hands, his bespoke suit smeared with mud, his fingers scraping raw against the stones. When blood began to seep up from the soil, he paused, then dug with even more frantic energy. But when he reached the bottom, all he found was the body of his prize-winning guard dog, ten years his loyal companion, now still and cold. He finally understood. He’d been played. 2 His bodyguards dropped to their knees. "Mrs. Blackwood threatened to kill herself if we touched her, sir! We didn't have a choice!" A slow, chilling smile spread across Damien's face. He wiped the bloody mud from his hands. Then he pulled his gun and shot the lead bodyguard in the head. The others trembled. "Sir," one stammered, "a motorcycle is missing from the garage." Comprehension dawned in his eyes, immediately followed by volcanic rage. "Double the guard at the hospital. I'm on my way." I watched it all on the security feed. I remembered something he’d taught me. When a person is torn between two incompatible anxieties, they lose the ability to think clearly. Just like eight years ago, when I couldn't choose who to love. Just like now, as he lost his goddamn mind and raced to her side. I sat in his study. Our one and only photo together was on the desk. I glanced at it for a second before flipping it face down. Then I opened my phone. So, her name was Isla. And he’d found her six months ago. She had sent me dozens of messages, all blocked until now. Photos of them at an amusement park, on a roller coaster. Photos of them wearing aprons, doing pottery. In the past six months, they had even adopted a cat together. Her texts were venomous. You're nothing but a stand-in. You were just a replacement to keep him company while I was gone. Now I'm back, and it's time for you to get the hell out. Every photo was a knife in my heart. If seeing her at the door had filled me with annoyance, this was pure, unadulterated rage. Betrayal. He had lied to me. Betrayed me. He had turned me into a monster, and now he thought he could have a normal, wholesome life on the side? No. That wasn't right at all. I stood, scaled the garden wall—ignoring the long scrapes it left on my arms—and sped away on the stolen motorcycle. I found the tattoo parlor from the address in Isla’s texts. As the artist worked, his hand brushed against my chest, and an involuntary thought surfaced: Damien would kill him for that. I immediately snorted in derision. Perhaps he’d make an exception for his new brother-in-law. When the last trace of Damien's name was gone, my phone buzzed. A message from him. "Stop this. I promise you two will never see each other again." I had to hurry. I smiled sweetly at the man lasering my skin, my hand coming to rest on his shoulder. My eyes swept over the cloyingly pink decor. "Your wife must love you very much, funding a shop like this for you." He froze, then his hand began to trace circles on my waist. "She doesn't love me," he said, his voice greasy. "She only has eyes for her brother. The name of the shop is just a combination of their names." My smile grew wider. "Does Isla's baby look like her brother, too?" He was leaning in to kiss me. He jerked back. "How did you know we have a child?" Before he could finish the sentence, the tattoo needle was in his neck. Blood sprayed across the pink walls. He crumpled to the floor. I wiped a smear of it from my cheek and sent a photo to Isla. 【A welcome-home gift.】 From the moment I walked out of that hospital, I vowed no one would ever humiliate me again. My phone blew up. Frantic calls from Isla, and then from Damien. I ignored them. I took a picture of the raw, bloody skin over my heart and sent it to him. 【I told you, darling. You only get one sister.】 The silence stretched on. Finally, a reply. "Stop the bleeding first." "I'm sending Isla away. Anywhere in the world. You choose." He was backing down. And it only made me angrier. I hurled the phone against the wall. He was protecting her. A small boy crawled out from a back room, his eyes wide and innocent. I smiled and beckoned to him. Ten minutes later, I was back on the motorcycle. I didn’t get far. His men cornered me and dragged me back to the mansion, throwing me at Damien’s feet. He gripped my chin, his voice a low growl. "You can pull whatever stunts you want with me. But you do not involve other people." His grip tightened. "You don't kill them." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And most importantly, where is the child?" I laughed, the sound echoing with madness. You do not involve other people? He certainly hadn't felt that way when he was killing for me eight years ago. I met his furious gaze. "Want to make a trade, darling?" He stared at me as if for the first time. "My little girl is all grown up," he murmured, a strange note in his voice. "Almost don't recognize you." I turned my head away with a sneer. "When you put the gun in my hand and made me execute our uncle, you called me decisive. Why the long face now that your sister's husband is dead? Worried she might be sad?" His lips thinned into a hard line. "This is the last time," he said, his voice flat and final. "Never again. Tell me what you want. I'll give you anything, as long as the boy is safe." I smiled brilliantly and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand. "I want Isla dead." 3 Damien’s face went dark. "Impossible." At that moment, the door burst open. Isla rushed in, her face a mess of tears and rage. "Damien! She killed my husband! I want her to pay! I want her dead!" She was heaving, the wound on her chest seeping fresh blood through the bandages. I laughed. "Did you like my gift?" Damien shot me a glacial look before turning to his men. "Someone get a doctor! See to Ms. Isla's wound!" But in the next second, Isla snatched a pair of surgical scissors from a medical tray and lunged at me. "Mara! I'll kill you!" I didn't move. I didn't even blink. But Damien did. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw his own arm up to block the blow. The scissors sliced across his forearm, and blood welled up instantly. "Damien, why are you still protecting her?!" Isla shrieked. "He's just a man!" Damien roared back at her. "I'll find you a better one! The child is what matters now, do you understand?" Isla's hysteria subsided. She began to tenderly wrap his arm, all while glaring at me and demanding I return her son. Damien stroked her hair, then glanced at me, an eyebrow raised. "You know," he said conversationally, "you used to cry until you couldn't breathe if I got so much as a paper cut." I was still stuck on the way he had instinctively shielded her, the way she now cared for him. In the past, whenever he was hurt, I was the one who patched him up. I would cry, and he would laugh and say my tears hurt him more than the wound. But now, Isla was the one bandaging his arm. His real sister. He stood up, sighing. "Let's talk business. I gave you a chance, my love." He clapped his hands. One of his men walked in carrying a ceramic urn. The blood in my veins turned to ice. My mother's ashes. The only thing that kept me tethered to sanity. I instinctively took a step forward, my mind clearing with cold dread. "The transaction begins now," he said, his voice steady. "You have ten minutes to tell me where the child is." I looked from him to the urn, and a laugh bubbled up, so sharp it brought tears to my eyes. "Still the master, aren't you, Damien?" Within minutes, the child was recovered safely. Isla was clutching him, sobbing with relief. Damien looked satisfied. He waved a hand, signaling for his man to take the urn away. Suddenly, Isla cried out and stumbled, crashing directly into the urn. "No!" "Oops!" It hit the marble floor and shattered. The pale grey powder mingled with the dust and blood on the ground, becoming a filthy paste. Time stopped. I watched my mother's last remains being desecrated, my mind a complete blank. Isla smiled triumphantly. "Clumsy me. So sorry." "I am going to kill you," I said, my voice quiet but absolute. I looked at her, surrounded by her protectors. "No matter where you go, I will find you, and you will die without a body left to bury." "Enough!" Damien's voice was like stone. "Consider this a lesson." He gathered Isla and her son, turning his back on me and walking away. I knelt and began to gather my mother's ashes with my bare hands. My movements were slow, unnervingly steady. All those years ago, when I had fought him tooth and nail, he had never dared to touch my mother’s memory. Now, to appease Isla, he had allowed this. He had let her trample on the only sacred thing I had left. My gaze turned to ice. When the room was empty, I pulled out my phone and made a call. "It's me," I said, my voice devoid of all warmth. "Activate the plan." You broke your promise, Damien. And now you're going to pay.
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