Chapter 2

Harper’s POV

I paid the driver and stepped out.

I hadn't made it in time after all.

I shook out my umbrella and walked briskly into the cold, cavernous administration hall.

The clerk behind the desk pulled up the system records and slid a confirmation slip across the counter.

"Thomas. By 3:00 PM, no financial guarantee or extension request was received. The system executed cremation at 3:00 PM sharp. Remains are not eligible for private release and have been interned in the courtyard's communal memorial wall. Please sign to acknowledge."

"Alright. Thank you."

With bloodless fingers, I took the lightweight slip of paper.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

From the moment I read Ethan's text, I had braced myself for this very second.

Holding the paper, I walked through the side corridor out to the courtyard's concrete wall.

My eyes scanned the endless rows of tiny niches, finally stopping at slot number 073.

There was no photo. Only black spray-painted numbers on the cold stone.

I walked up and raised a trembling hand to touch it.

"Dad, just bear it a little longer," I choked out, a raw sob catching in my throat. "In thirty days, I'll take you away from here. We'll never come back."

Days of starvation combined with my chronic stomach ulcer hit back with savage intensity.

A violent, twisting spasm seized my gut.

Darkness swarmed my vision.

Before I could make a sound, I collapsed silently against the cold concrete steps.

...

When I woke up, the smell of sterile antiseptic flooded my senses.

"You're awake?" The floor nurse walked in to swap out the IV bag. "A Good Samaritan brought you in after you collapsed in the pouring rain outside the morgue. Extreme emotional distress on top of severe malnutrition. Your body is wrecked. You can't just run around like that."

I didn't answer. I reached up and ripped the IV needle straight out of the back of my hand.

A string of crimson droplets splashed onto the pristine white sheets. I didn't even flinch.

I fished the divorce filing receipt from my bag.

My fingertips traced the edges of the paper.

Twenty-nine days left.

In twenty-nine days, the plan would execute, and my existence would be wiped clean from the earth.

Before that, every single debt owed to me would be collected, with interest.

Leaving the clinic, I hailed a cab straight to the Vance estate.

By the time I pushed open the front doors, the sky had turned pitch black.

The living room was brightly lit, the central heat blasting.

Ethan sat on the sofa with a bowl of oatmeal, patiently blowing on each spoonful before lifting it to the lips of the woman beside him.

Chloe leaned against his shoulder, scrolling through her phone and giggling:

"Ethan, I already posted the settlement waiver Harper signed on Twitter. Everyone is calling her a gold-digging bitch, saying she used her dead dad to extort my family. Let public opinion teach her a lesson. You're not allowed to take her side."

Ethan's hand paused slightly on the spoon. His throat bobbed, and he muttered quietly, "She went too far this time. A lesson won't hurt."

The click of the front door interrupted them.

Both turned their heads and saw me standing in the foyer.

I wore thin, damp clothes, my face as white as a sheet of paper. But my spine was rod-straight, and my eyes were as cold as a frozen lake.

Seeing me, a flicker of panic crossed Ethan's eyes. He set the bowl down, his tone softening instinctively: "Where have you been? You blocked my calls. What happened to your forehead?"

"The morgue." I slipped off my wet shoes, my voice raspy yet eerily calm. "Visiting my dad's new home."

Ethan froze. A wave of guilt washed over his features, quickly replaced by his usual defensive impatience. "It's already done. Why do you keep bringing it up...?"

Chloe blinked innocently, putting on a fragile act. "Harper, wasn't your dad cremated through the public service? Ethan is closing a massive merger right now. Please don't ruin his mood over this."

I turned, my gaze piercing right through her delicate, venomous face. A cold smile touched my lips.

"Don't worry, Chloe. That niche on the wall might be small, but it's clean. Far cleaner than this mansion you're sitting in."

Chloe's expression shifted instantly. Tears welled in her eyes as she tugged at Ethan's sleeve. "Ethan, look at her... she's still cursing me."

"Harper!" Ethan snapped, his brow furrowing deep. "How dare you speak to Chloe like that? She's still recovering. She can't handle stress!"

Looking at him made me sick to my stomach. I turned and headed for the stairs.

"Wait."

Chloe called out, throwing a subtle look at the maid standing nearby.

The maid stepped forward timidly, carrying a silver tray. On it rested a folded maid's uniform.

"Harper, we hired quite a few new staff members who don't recognize you," Chloe purred from Ethan's arms, her tone dripping with sweet malice. "To make sure the staff knows who is the mistress and who is the servant, why don't you wear this from now on?"

Dead silence fell over the living room.

Ethan sat on the sofa, casually flipping through a folder on the coffee table. He didn't even lift his eyes, quietly condoning the sheer humiliation.

I looked down at the uniform. I didn't explode in fury. I didn't shed a single tear.

I reached out with cold, steady fingers and took the fabric.

"Chloe makes a good point," I said, looking right into her smug eyes, my voice chilled to the bone. "When people are blind and deaf, if you don't dress clearly, it really is hard to tell who's human and who's a monster in this house."

The smug smirk on Chloe's face froze solid.

I didn't linger. I walked straight upstairs.

Late that night, the master bedroom door was pushed open.

Chloe walked in clutching a medical report, looking fragile and pathetic. "Ethan, the doctor said I suffer from severe night terrors and need the room with the best sunlight. The north guest room barely gets any sun, and I keep having nightmares..."

Ethan glanced at the diagnosis for nervous exhaustion, then at Chloe's pale face. His guilt seemed to magnify exponentially.

He turned toward me where I sat on the edge of the bed looking at a desk calendar. His tone sounded like a suggestion, but it was an absolute command:

"Harper, move to the north guest room for a few days. Once Chloe feels better, you can move back."

I shut the calendar.

Of the thirty squares, the first had just been crossed out with a thick, red line.

Twenty-eight days left.