1 I saved Grant Miller’s life once, and he spent the rest of his hating me for it. He hated me because when the house went up in flames, I dragged him out first, leaving my best friend, Sienna, to be swallowed by the fire. I, in turn, hated him for the affair he’d been having behind my back. I hated myself even more for being the kind of woman who would sacrifice half her face to save a man like him. We lived in a state of mutual wreckage, two people bound together by trauma and resentment, unable to let go and unwilling to forgive. Then came the night a man with a knife and a shattered mind cornered us in an alley. Grant—the man who claimed to loathe the very sight of me—didn't hesitate. He shoved me aside. I watched the blade sink into his chest, the crimson of his blood staining my vision. When I collapsed beside him, sobbing, he used the last of his strength to push me away one final time. "She’s gone, and I don't want to be here without her," he wheezed, his voice a jagged rasp. "Evelyn... we’re even now. Just... bury me next to her. Please." His eyes grew glassy. "If there’s a next time... don't love me." At the funeral, Grant’s father was a shell of a man. "It’s my fault," Richard Miller choked out. "I shouldn't have forced him to marry her. If I hadn’t kept them apart, maybe he’d still be alive." His mother, Martha, didn't offer words. She offered a slap that rang across the cemetery. "You jinx," she hissed, her face distorted by grief. "Why wasn't it you? Give me back my son!" In that life, everyone regretted that Grant had ever married me. Including me. But when I opened my eyes again, the smell of lilies and damp earth was gone. I was standing in a kitchen. A pot was boiling over on the stove, the steam hitting my face with a sharp, stinging heat. I looked down at my hands. They were smooth. No puckered scar tissue, no grafts, no memories written in burnt flesh. I looked into the small mirror above the sink. There she was—my twenty-four-year-old self. My right cheek was flawless, my eyes bright with a youth I thought I’d buried. Not the monster I’d become, the one who couldn't even stand her own reflection. I stared until the boiling water splashed onto the back of my hand. The sharp prick of pain brought me back. It was real. I was back. Back before the fire. In my previous life, this was the night it all started. Sienna and Grant were about to walk through the door. Sienna had just been evicted, and she was "homeless" and "heartbroken." When they arrived, I realized I’d only made enough dinner for three. In that other life, I had smiled through the hurt, insisted I wasn't hungry, and sat in the corner like a ghost while they ate and laughed. I dried my hands and walked out of the kitchen just as the front door clicked open. "I’m tired," I said, my voice steady. "I’m not cooking tonight." Martha Miller froze, her hand on Sienna’s suitcase. "What? Then what are we supposed to eat?" A dull ache throbbed in my chest. I had lived with the Millers for seven years. When my parents died in that car wreck when I was seventeen, Richard had held my hand in the hospital corridor and told me their home was my home. Martha had held me while I cried, promising to love me like her own daughter. I believed them. I memorized their coffee orders, their favorite laundry detergents, the exact way Richard liked his steaks. I gave them everything, and in return, they turned me into the wallpaper of their lives. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I touched my right cheek, my fingers trembling. After the fire in my last life, Grant had looked at my scars exactly once. He had winced and turned his head away in disgust. The man I had crawled through hell to save couldn't even look at me. Outside, I heard the soft murmur of voices. I splashed cold water on my face and stepped out. The door to the guest room—the room they were giving Sienna—was shut. Martha looked up from the sofa. "Evelyn, honey, is something wrong?" "I'm out of grocery money," I said. "I need to talk to Grant." As I moved toward the guest room door, Richard jumped up, fumbling for his phone. "I’ll Venmo you five hundred. Just use that for now." The notification chimed on my phone. I didn't move. "Is Sienna in there? I want to ask what she wants for breakfast tomorrow." Martha’s smile was tight, nervous. "She’s... probably in the shower." "Fine," I said, grabbing my coat. "I'm going out." "This late?" Martha asked. I looked at the closed door of the guest room. "The air in here is suffocating." I didn't look back. That night, I went to the most expensive seafood place in the city. When the hostess asked how many, I said, "Just one." I ordered everything I used to love—crab, oysters, lobster—the kind of inflammatory foods I couldn't touch for years after the surgery. I swallowed the crab meat along with the salt of my own tears. This life was just beginning. I was done crying for them. 2 The living room lights were still on when I got back. Grant was sitting on the sofa, a cold glass of water on the coffee table. He looked up, his jaw set. "Where have you been?" "Eating." He stood up, his voice simmering with a familiar, controlled anger. "You didn't make dinner. You know my mom’s stomach acts up if she doesn't eat on time." I glanced at the dining table. There were greasy takeout boxes scattered about. Martha had clearly eaten just fine. Grant followed my gaze, his expression darkening. "Takeout isn't the same and you know it." In my last life, I would have apologized. I would have felt the weight of a guilt that wasn't mine to carry. "The stove works, Grant. The rice is in the pantry." I kicked off my shoes. "You’re twenty-seven years old. Figure it out." Grant blinked, stunned. "What did you just say to me?" Martha hurried out of her room, playing the peacemaker. "It’s okay, Grant. Evelyn’s just had a long day." She turned to me, her voice slipping back into that effortless maternal command. "Sienna didn't eat much. Make sure you get some oats or something light for her in the morning." "She’s a guest," I said, setting my bag down. Martha paused. "Pardon?" "Guests can order DoorDash," I said slowly. "I'm not her maid." Grant let out a sharp, cold laugh. "What is wrong with you today? Did you go off your meds or something?" I looked at him. He had no idea I had already died once. He had no idea that his "we’re even" had shattered every ounce of love I’d spent a decade building. He only knew that for the first time, Evelyn wasn't bowing. Grant grabbed his jacket and marched to the guest room door. He knocked, and it opened instantly. Sienna stood there in a silk robe, her hair artfully tousled. She paled when she saw me standing in the hall. "We're going out for late-night tacos," Grant said, his eyes fixed on Sienna. "But... what about Evelyn?" Sienna whispered, casting a performative, guilty look my way. Grant didn't even look at me. "She’s not coming." I sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. As the door clicked shut, I heard Grant’s muffled voice in the hallway: "Let her throw her tantrum. She’ll be back to normal by morning." I waited until the house was silent. Then, I grabbed my keys and went to Richard’s locked study. In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, there were supposed to be the records of the trust fund and insurance payouts my parents had left me. I jimmied the lock—a trick I’d learned during the lean years after Grant’s company failed in my previous life. I found the account numbers. My laptop took forever to boot up, the glowing screen the only light in the room. I logged into the portal. The balance was zero. I stared at the screen. I refreshed. Still zero. I called the 24-hour customer service line for the investment firm. After a series of security questions, the agent’s voice was polite but firm. "Ms. Miller—sorry, Ms. Lane—your funds were liquidated over a period of three years." "By who?" I asked, my voice trembling. "The authorized trustees on the account: Richard and Martha Miller." I hung up. The coldness started in my fingertips and moved to my heart. They didn't just want me to marry their son to keep me in the family. They had stolen the only thing my parents had left me to ensure I had to stay. I was a captive dressed up as a daughter. I spent the next hour photographing every document, every signature. The front door opened. Grant and Sienna were back, their voices a low, intimate murmur. "You shouldn't be so mean to her, Grant," Sienna said. "It makes me feel bad." "She’s been miserable for years, Sienna. It’s not your fault she’s obsessed with me. She knew what this was when we got engaged." I closed the laptop. He didn't love me. He never had. Good. That made what came next so much easier. 3 The next morning, Martha’s voice was bright over the speakerphone at breakfast. Grant was nursing a coffee; Sienna was across from him, picking at a bowl of yogurt. "Evelyn, honey," Martha said. "I checked the calendar. Tomorrow is the perfect day for you and Grant to go down to the courthouse and get the marriage license. We can do a small dinner after." In my last life, I had blushed. I had looked at Grant with hope, even when he slammed his chair back and walked out. I had made excuses for his "stress." Now, I watched him. His hand tightened on his mug. Sienna went ghostly white, her hand instinctively fluttering to her stomach. "Actually, Martha," I said, my voice flat. "Tomorrow doesn't work." Grant looked up, surprised. "Grant’s been so stressed with the new startup project," I continued. "Taking time off for the courthouse right now... it wouldn't look good to the investors, would it, Grant?" Grant jumped at the lifeline. "Right. Yeah. I'm buried in work. We can’t do tomorrow." The line went quiet for a moment. Then Richard’s voice came through in the background. "Career comes first." "Fine," Martha sighed. "Soon, though. I just want you two officially settled. Once you're married and we have a grandbaby in the house, this family will finally be complete." Grandbaby. I looked at Sienna. She looked like she was going to vomit. She pressed a hand to her abdomen and then pulled it away quickly. I remembered the hospital room in my last life. The smell of antiseptic. Grant bursting in, his eyes bloodshot, screaming at me. I had just had my bandages changed; half my face was a raw, throbbing mess. He didn't ask if I was okay. He screamed, "Why didn't you save her? She was pregnant, Evelyn! She was carrying my baby!" The fire had taken his lover and his child. And it had taken the last shred of my soul. "You're being surprisingly reasonable today," Grant said after the call ended. Sienna looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed. "Evelyn... are you sure you're okay with waiting?" "Why wouldn't I be?" I asked. She couldn't answer. She just looked down, her lower lip trembling. Grant slammed his cup down. "Stop with the passive-aggressive tone, Evelyn." "Did I say something wrong?" I asked. He searched my face, looking for the jealousy, the hurt, the broken girl he was used to. I didn't give him anything. That night, Grant knocked on my bedroom door. He smelled like shower gel, his hair damp. "Why did you bail me out with my mom today?" "You didn't want to go," I said, sitting on the edge of my bed. "I'm asking for the real reason." "Sienna told me you were under a lot of pressure. I didn't want to make things harder for you." Grant’s shoulders relaxed slightly. "You two are getting along better than I thought." "We're great," I said. So great that she was sleeping with my fiancé while pretending to be my best friend. Grant walked into the room, reaching out to touch my shoulder. I flinched back before he could make contact. His hand hung in the air. "I’m not feeling well," I said. "Cramps." "Fine. Get some sleep." He walked out. I listened to his footsteps. They didn't go to his room. They stopped at the guest room. The click of the door was so soft you’d miss it if you weren't listening for the sound of your own heart breaking. I pulled out my phone and hit 'record' on a voice memo app. I caught the muffled whispers, the low laughs. I didn't need to hear the words to know the story. When Grant finally came back to our shared room hours later, he thought I was asleep. He stripped off his shirt, and in the dim glow of the streetlamp, I saw the fresh red mark on the side of his neck. I looked away, a wave of nausea rolling over me. While he slept, I messaged a lawyer named Adrian Prescott—a recommendation from an old college friend. I sent him the photos of the trust fund documents. He replied almost instantly. Bring everything to my office at 8 AM. I didn't sleep. I just watched the shadows move across the ceiling until the sun began to rise. I left before anyone else was awake. I didn't look back. 4 Over the next week, I moved my documents and jewelry to a safe deposit box. Adrian had already flagged the Millers' unauthorized withdrawals. The day of the fire arrived. Richard and Martha were headed to a charity gala. It was just me, Grant, and Sienna in the house. At dinner, Sienna claimed she was feeling faint. Grant dropped his fork immediately. "We’re going to the ER." "No," she whispered, clutching his arm. "I just need to rest. Evelyn... would you mind if I left my door open tonight? I’m a little scared being in that back room alone." My hand froze on my glass. "Sure. Leave it open." Grant frowned. "Why are you scared? It's just a house." Sienna looked down, playing the victim perfectly. "I don't know. I just have a bad feeling." I took a sip of my water. "That back room is right next to the old electrical panel, Sienna. You should be careful." Grant stilled. He looked at me, his eyes sharp. "What’s that supposed to mean?" "Just a reminder about fire safety," I said. "The wiring in this place is ancient." Sienna gave a forced laugh. "Evelyn, you’ve been saying such creepy things lately." "Have I? Maybe I’m just tired." After dinner, I helped Sienna shut her door halfway. She stood in the doorway, her fingers hovering over the frame. "Evelyn... do you hate me?" "You're overthinking it," I said. Grant walked up behind her, putting a hand on her waist—a gesture he thought I couldn't see. "If she hated you, she wouldn't let you stay here, Sienna. She’s just being Evelyn." He said it with such confidence, like he actually knew me. I watched them disappear into the room together. The door clicked shut. I went to my room and grabbed the bag I’d packed days ago. Before I left, I unplugged everything in my room and put an old, frayed phone charger into a plastic bag. Adrian had already sent a private investigator to take photos of the electrical panel. There were fresh scratches on the breakers. In my last life, I thought the fire was a tragic accident. Grant said it was an accident. The Millers said it was an accident. And I, with my melted face, accepted the blame they piled on me. But this time, I had looked. Someone had tampered with the wires. Maybe they just wanted to scare me. Maybe they wanted a small, "controlled" fire to make the house feel unsafe so I’d agree to move into a smaller condo they’d picked out—one without my name on the deed. But fire doesn't listen to plans. I walked to the front door and let myself out. I didn't stop until I was three blocks away at a 24-hour diner. I ordered a huge meal. "Eating all that by yourself?" the waitress asked. "I’m celebrating," I said. The sirens started thirty minutes later. People in the diner turned toward the window. "Looks like something’s going up on Oak Street." My phone lit up. Grant. I didn't answer. Then Martha. I didn't answer. I finished my meal, paid the bill, and walked back toward the smoke. The street was blocked by fire trucks. The air was thick with the smell of scorched insulation and wet ash. I saw the gurneys being rolled out. Grant’s face was covered in gauze. His arms were wrapped. He was conscious, thrashing against the straps. "My face! What happened to my face? Doctor, tell me!" On the other gurney, Sienna was hysterical. "Grant! It hurts! Someone give me a mirror! Am I ugly?" Martha arrived and nearly collapsed. "Grant! Oh my god, my son!" Richard was white as a sheet, demanding answers from the fire chief. I stood at the back of the crowd, watching the spectacle. Martha spotted me. She lunged, grabbing my arm so hard her nails dug in. "Where were you? Why weren't you with him? You were supposed to be there!" She didn't get to finish her tirade. Two police officers stepped forward. "Richard Miller? Martha Miller?" Richard turned, confused. "Yes?" "You're being brought in for questioning regarding the suspected embezzlement of Evelyn Lane’s estate. Please come with us."
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