Chapter 1: The Day She Died
She died a hundred times before her heart gave out just once.
The iron tang of blood lingered thick in the air, sharp and metallic—like rusted coins pressed to the back of the tongue.
Anya lay crumpled on the cold marble floor, her once-dancer's frame shattered beyond repair. Skin bloomed purple with bruises. Bloody lashes carved lines across her back. Fingers too swollen to twitch.
One eye refused to open.
The other stared, blank and unfocused, at the ceiling that had become her sky for the last 730 days.
Two years.
Two years of silence, of screams.
Two years of twisted lullabies, of betrayal wrapped in velvet.
Two years in the mansion Aaron called "home."
Aaron—her childhood best friend.
The boy who once wiped her tears and smeared strawberry popsicles on her nose during summer storms.
Now he stood above her, smiling. The same dimple showed.
But the warmth in his eyes was gone.
Only satisfaction remained. Possession. Madness.
"Why don't you cry anymore, Anya?" he asked, crouching beside her, brushing blood-matted hair from her cheek with a tenderness that made her stomach turn.
"Don't you love me anymore?"
She would have laughed—if her throat hadn't been raw.
Even whispering split her lips.
Love?
The last thing she loved had died a year ago.
Ryan.
Her fingers twitched, reaching for a name that echoed louder than her heartbeat.
The man who might have saved her.
But never came.
No, she told herself. He couldn't have known.
Not when Aaron had made sure the world saw her as something vile. Seductive. Willing.
The videos were staged. Filmed. Edited.
Every scream. Every plea.
All twisted.
And Ryan… he never came.
On her last birthday, Aaron had shown her a clip.
Grainy. Shaky. Ryan—alive. Smiling. Holding hands with his first love.
"He moved on," Aaron said, almost gently. "You were always the substitute. Didn't you know?"
She had tried to believe it. Hated Ryan for it.
It was easier that way.
But now—
Now, as her lungs fought for air and her vision dimmed like a dying candle—the truth pierced her.
Ryan died… because of me.
He had been searching for her. Fighting shadows for a girl branded insane.
Her silence had been forced. Her voice erased beneath forged lies.
They killed him.
Just like they killed her.
Only slower.
Aaron stood. Walked away, humming softly like a lullaby warped by hell.
His two "friends"—monsters in tailored suits—laughed in the hallway.
Cigars lit. Smoke drifted in, blending with blood and memories.
Her body hurt.
But her soul—
Her soul burned.
And then it came.
A memory. No—a revelation.
Everything clicked.
The fire that killed her father during her final ballet.
The drug-induced fall of her mother from the rooftop.
The cold smile of her second uncle.
The glint in Cousin Lia's eye as she whispered lies to Ryan's ex.
Aaron's mother offering her tea laced with silence.
They had planned it all.
Her family.
Aaron.
His parents.
Even her second uncle .
A dynasty built on betrayal.
Anya didn't cry.
She smiled—bloody, cracked, triumphant.
Because rage tasted better than despair.
Her lips moved, a breathless whisper only death heard:
> "If I had another chance… they'd all burn with me."
And then the darkness took her.
But the fire did not go out.
It smoldered.
Waiting.