1 My father and brother hated me with a visceral, bone-deep intensity. The reason was simple: I was the one who bought the bottle of sleeping pills that ended my mother’s life. My father treated me like a ghost, a haunting presence he refused to acknowledge. My brother, Adrian, had long since shattered under the weight of his grief, screaming at me that I was a murderer, that I didn’t deserve the air I breathed. And yet, these were the same two men who claimed to love my mother so much. On the anniversary of her death—the day the world should have been silent—they were downstairs throwing a lavish party for another girl’s birthday. In my head, The Voice asked me for the nth time if I was ready to leave this world. This time, I finally said yes. In the moment my soul drifted toward the ceiling, I saw my father’s face crumble and my brother’s eyes fill with a sudden, panicked realization. But I didn't care. Because waiting at the door to take me home was my mother. The moment I stepped through the front door, the scent of warm vanilla and butter hit me. "Mrs. Gable, are we having tarts for tea today?" I called out, my mouth watering. I didn't wait for an answer. I was starving, the kind of hollow hunger that comes from a day of being ignored. I hurried into the kitchen, found a box on the counter, and took a frantic bite. "Who told you that you could touch those?" I spun around, nearly choking. Adrian stood in the doorway, his handsome face twisted into a mask of pure rage. "Is that yours? Did you pay for it?" He crossed the kitchen in three sharp strides, his fingers locking around my wrist like a vice. "Adrian... I just..." I stammered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Adrian, stop it. It’s just a tart. Let her have it." A girl stepped out from behind him, her hand resting gently on his arm. It was Natalie. "Grace, don't be scared. He’s just teasing." "I told you not to call me your brother in front of her," Adrian said, his voice dripping with disgust. But the moment he looked at Natalie, his expression softened. "Natalie, don't waste your breath defending people who don't matter. I spent three hours in line at Belle Vie to get these for you. Seeing her ruin them makes my blood boil." I felt the heat of shame crawl up my neck. I slowly placed the bitten tart back into the box, my hands trembling. "I... I thought Mrs. Gable made them. I didn't know." "It’s fine, Grace. If Adrian bought them for me, they’re for you too. Let's share," Natalie said, reaching for the box with a sweet, practiced smile. The next second, Adrian swiped the box off the counter, sending the pastries scattering across the floor. "Natalie, get away from her." He pulled her behind him, shielding her as if I were a contagion. "Who knows if she put something in them? After all..." My face went bloodless. Adrian leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper. "She knows better than anyone exactly how my mother died." I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, struggling just to remain standing. I had heard those words a thousand times, yet they still felt like a fresh serrated blade across my chest. Adrian led Natalie away, his hand resting tenderly on her shoulder. He leaned down, listening to her chatter with a devotion he used to reserve only for me. He was a wonderful brother—gentle, protective, kind. At least, he was to her. Belle Vie tarts. No wonder they smelled so good. I’d heard people camped out for those. If the accident hadn't happened, I would have been the one walking beside him. I was his sister. His flesh and blood. I knelt on the cold tile, picking up the ruined tarts one by one. I took a bite of the one I had started. It was strange. A moment ago, it smelled like heaven. Now, it just tasted like salt. Bitter, stinging salt. "Grace? What are you doing?" The next morning, Natalie climbed out of the car, her wide eyes blinking in confusion as she looked at me standing on the porch. I gathered my courage and held out a new box. "For you," I said. "To replace the ones from yesterday." I had woken up at 4:00 AM and walked three miles to catch a bus to the bakery. I didn't have a car, and I didn't dare ask the family driver for anything. "Oh, Grace, you didn't have to! It was just a box of tarts. My dad—well, your dad—already bought me a diamond ring to make up for the 'trauma' of the kitchen scene." She giggled, flashing a sparkling band on her finger. I nodded silently, turning to go back inside. They were a family now. Adrian stood in lines for her; my father gave her black cards to spend as she pleased. All because she had been my mother’s "star pupil." And I? I was just the girl who bought the poison. 2 "Wait, let me see..." Natalie’s hand darted out, grabbing my arm. Her eyes lit up with a strange, predatory brightness. "Oh! Grape flavored?" "They... they ran out of the original vanilla," I said, feeling awkward. "I'm sorry. There are just some dried currants and grape preserves on top." "Don't be sorry! Grape is my absolute favorite," she said, snatching the box from my hands. I watched her skip away, feeling a flicker of relief. Maybe she wasn't so bad. Maybe if I just tried harder, we could all be okay. That hope lasted exactly four hours. I was jolted awake by the sound of my bedroom door crashing against the wall. Before I could even clear the sleep from my eyes, I was dragged off the bed and onto the floor. The searing pain in my scalp told me Adrian had a fistful of my hair. "You miserable, calculating bitch!" Adrian screamed. My father, Harrison, stood in the doorway, his face a mask of cold fury. "Did you know Natalie is deathly allergic to grapes? Did you?!" Adrian shook me, his eyes bloodshot. "You really are a monster, aren't you?" Allergic? My mind raced. Natalie had seen the grapes. She had smiled. She had said it was her favorite. "I didn't know... she told me she loved them..." I gasped, trying to pry his fingers loose. "So now you're claiming she framed you? That she’d risk anaphylactic shock just to make you look bad?" Adrian sneered, his grip tightening around my throat. "You aren't even worth the effort of framing, Grace. Some people are just born rotten. You killed Mom, and now you're trying to take out the one person who actually makes this house feel like a home." I slumped against the floor, a profound sense of exhaustion washing over me. He was right. Why would she need to frame me? She already had everything. "And you still have this!" Adrian grabbed a small, amber plastic bottle from my nightstand. The label was faded, the plastic yellowed with age. The sleeping pills. "What is this for, Grace? Who’s next? Me? Natalie? Dad?" He shoved the bottle against my cheek. "Or are you planning to take them yourself? Maybe you should. You're the one who bought them. You're the only one in this house who actually deserves to die." He stopped abruptly. His expression shifted from rage to a sudden, flickering confusion. I reached up and wiped my nose. I was bleeding again. It had been happening more and more lately—thick, dark red drops staining my skin. I must look disgusting to him, I thought. Just another reason to hate me. "That's enough, Adrian," my father said. He looked at the pill bottle, then at me, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "If anything happens to Natalie, Grace, I won't hesitate to call the police and hand them every piece of evidence of your 'accidental' history. You’re on borrowed time in this house." They left, and the silence that followed was louder than the screaming. I curled into a ball in the corner of my dark room, clutching the empty pill bottle. The last time Adrian had been this angry was the night Mom died. He had pinned me against the hallway wall and asked me why I didn't just die instead of her. “You can choose to leave this world,” the mechanical voice whispered in my mind. It always appeared when the pain became physical, like a ghost haunting my synapses. I didn't answer. Not yet. 3 The sky was a bruised purple when I walked out of the clinic. A little boy ran past, bumping into my legs. I stumbled, my balance failing me. "Tell the lady you're sorry!" his mother said, catching my arm. She looked at me, her brow furrowing with concern. "Honey, are you alright? You look so pale." I forced a smile and shook my head, but the tears beat me to it. I had gone to the clinic thinking I was losing my mind—that the "Voice" was a sign of schizophrenia. But after the scans, the neurologist didn't talk about my mind. He talked about my brain. "At your age, these symptoms should have brought you in months ago," he’d said, his voice grave. "Where are your parents? With aggressive treatment, there’s a chance. A small one, but a chance." I had watched his lips move, feeling nothing but a strange, hollow peace. They wouldn't pay for my treatment. They wanted me gone. It was almost funny—I lived in a mansion, my father sat on a board worth hundreds of millions, and I had taken the city bus to receive my death sentence. Six months, the doctor had said. Maybe less if you don't start the trial. "Sweetie?" the woman asked again, waving a hand in front of my face. Through the blur of tears, she looked like my mother. If Mom were here, she would be holding me. She wouldn't let me go through this alone. "The gold trophy is basically yours, Grace! It's always you," a girl from my music theory class whispered, nudging my shoulder. I didn't respond. I just stared at the keys of the Steinway on the stage. The Regional Youth Concerto Competition was the only thing I had left. It was the only way I could still talk to my mother—through the music she taught me. "Wait, who is that?" someone whispered. "Is that Harrison Whitman? The billionaire? What is he doing at a regional heat?" "I heard he’s the primary sponsor this year. He donated a quarter-million to the foundation. Must be here for his 'princess.'" My heart skipped a beat. I looked toward the VIP section. There he was. My father. Our eyes met for a fleeting second before he looked away, taking his seat among the judges. "Grace, he's looking at you!" my classmate hissed. "Wait, Whitman... that’s your last name! Is that your dad? He’s here for you!" A tiny, traitorous spark of hope flickered in my chest. Maybe he knew. Maybe Adrian had told him I was sick. Maybe this was his way of saying he was sorry. "No, don't be silly," I whispered, though my palms were sweating. Harrison Whitman only did things this grand for Natalie. But Natalie hadn't touched a piano in years. She was a dancer, not a pianist. I scanned the room. Natalie wasn't there. The murmurs grew louder. I let myself sink into the fantasy. What if he really was here for me? What if he wanted to hear me play the piece Mom wrote for my sixteenth birthday? "Sorry to interrupt, everyone!" a bright, chirpy voice rang out. 4 "I hope I'm not late! Uncle Harrison is treating everyone to Starbucks after the set, so please be nice to me!" The cold water of reality drenched me instantly. Natalie stood there, radiant in a silk dress, waving to the crowd. "Oh... so he’s here for her," the girl beside me muttered, her tone shifting from awe to pity. The crowd swarmed Natalie. I looked down at my hands, my knuckles white. It didn't matter. He was still in the judge's seat. He would have to listen to me. I would play so perfectly, so beautifully, that he would have to remember I was his daughter. I was slated to go before Natalie. But as the girl before me finished her set, the sky opened up. This was an outdoor "Arts in the Park" gala, designed for aesthetic, not practicality. "Grace, maybe we should wait," my teacher said, grabbing my arm as the rain began to mist the stage. "The weather is turning." "I have to play," I said, my voice cracking. I walked onto the stage as the drizzle turned into a steady downpour. I sat at the bench, my fingers trembling as I touched the cold ivory. I began to play the piece. Evelyn’s Waltz. Look at me, Dad. I’m her student, too. I’m the one who stayed. I stared at him, but he wasn't looking at the stage. He was looking at his shoes. Then he looked at Natalie, who was shivering under a tent, pointing at her damp hem with a pouty lip. "Miss, the piano is getting wet!" a stagehand shouted, running toward me. "Stop! We have to cover the instrument! The competition is suspended!" I didn't stop. I played through the rain, my fingers sliding on the wet keys, the notes blurring into a dissonant mess. I watched as my father stood up. He didn't look at me once. He took off his blazer, draped it over Natalie’s shoulders, and ushered her toward the waiting limo. He left before the first chorus ended. I sat there in the drenching rain, my hands frozen over the keys. "Mom," I whispered into the thunder. "I didn't win today." The cemetery was quiet, the air thick with the scent of wet earth. I knelt before the marble headstone, placing a bundle of wilted wildflowers on the base. "Mom, the florist was closed by the time I got here," I sobbed, the rain mixing with my tears. "This was all I could find. Can you... can you forgive me?" "She can't." I froze. Adrian stood behind me, holding a large umbrella. In his other hand was a massive bouquet of pristine white roses. "You killed her," he said, his voice cold and flat. "You think a handful of weeds and a 'sorry' is going to fix that?" He stepped forward and kicked my wildflowers away, ground them into the mud with his heel. He replaced them with the white roses. "You're so pathetic, Grace. Even when you're 'atoning,' you're lazy. You couldn't even be bothered to buy real flowers?" "The shops were closed, Adrian. I was at the competition—" "I know where you were. I heard you made a fool of yourself in the rain. Do you know the difference between you and Natalie?" He knelt down, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Natalie felt bad she couldn't make it to the gravesite today because she was at the gala. She called ahead and had these roses delivered to the house so I could bring them. She cares. You just perform." I looked at the crushed weeds under his boot. I felt the last of my strength drain away. "Adrian," I whispered. "If I told you that when I bought those pills, I truly didn't know... if I told you the pharmacist told me they were herbal supplements... would you believe me?" His face contorted. Before I could blink, his hand was around my throat, slamming my head back against the cold marble of the tombstone. "Don't you dare lie to me about those pills!" he hissed. "You've spent years brainwashing yourself to ease your guilt. You want forgiveness? Die. If you were actually sorry, you’d go down there and join her." Footsteps sounded in the distance—a groundskeeper making his rounds. Adrian let go. I slumped against the stone, the world spinning. I felt something warm trickle down my forehead. A thorn from one of Natalie's roses had slashed my temple. “You can choose to leave this world,” The Voice spoke again. I leaned my head against my mother’s etched name. "Can I choose the time?" I asked internally. "Yes." "Two months," I whispered. "Give me two months." I returned home a ghost. "Oh my god, Grace! Look at you!" Mrs. Gable cried, rushing toward me with a towel. The noise drew them out of the living room. Natalie stood there, a piece of birthday cake in her hand, her eyes wide with mock horror. "Grace! You're a mess! Mrs. Gable, take her upstairs before she catches pneumonia. Grace, do you want to come down for cake after your bath?" Her voice was like saccharine. I watched my father light the candles on a cake. "Don't worry about her, Natalie," Harrison said, not even looking up. "She’s just looking for attention. Let her be." Adrian placed a small tiara on Natalie’s head. "Don't let her ruin your night, Princess. Make a wish." I stood on the stairs, my nails digging into my palms. "Mrs. Gable," I whispered. "Today isn't Natalie’s birthday, is it?" The housekeeper looked down, sighing. "She has a dance regional next week, so they’re celebrating early." Next week. But today was the anniversary of my mother's death. I finally understood. Natalie wasn't just replacing me. She was erasing my mother, too. And my father and brother were helping her do it.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "562089", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel