Alexia POV:

I didn't answer her knock.

Not right away. I needed a moment for the roaring in my ears to subside, for my breathing to even out. My back pressed against the cool wood of the door, the only solid thing in a world that had just dissolved into a nightmare.

Memories, sharp and cruel, flashed behind my eyes.

Katrina, weeping, begging me to take the blame for breaking our mother's favorite vase. I was ten. I took the punishment.

Katrina, presenting a hand-painted scarf to our father for his birthday — the same scarf I had spent weeks working on in secret. She claimed it as her own. I said nothing.

Katrina, standing behind our mother's chair, a flicker of a triumphant smile on her face as I was publicly scolded for a mistake she had made.

And the final, damning image: her face at Sunstone Ridge. No guilt. No fear for me. Just the cold, hard glint of self-preservation as she abandoned me to the wolves — both literal and figurative.

What I had once dismissed as childish jealousy, I now saw for what it was: a deep, calculated malice.

Stealing my destiny wasn't a sudden impulse. It was the culmination of a lifetime of betrayals.

Another knock, this one more insistent. "Alexia, come on! We'll miss our chance if we wait any longer." Her voice was laced with manufactured urgency.

I took a slow, deep breath, the air burning in my lungs. I walked to the centre of the room, putting distance between myself and the door — between myself and her.

"I have a headache," I said, my voice deliberately flat and weak. "I don't feel like going out today."

The silence on the other side of the door was telling. I could picture her perfectly: the feigned look of concern clouding her pretty features, her mind racing to understand this unexpected deviation from the script.

"A headache?" Her voice was a symphony of manufactured disappointment. "But you were fine last night! We've been planning this for weeks!"

You've been planning this, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Maybe I didn't sleep well," I replied, letting my voice trail off. "You should go on your own. Have fun."

"But... we were supposed to go together!" The desperation was seeping into her tone now. Her plan was unraveling. "I'll be scared by myself."

A cold, humorless laugh almost escaped me. You weren't scared when you left me with a shattered ankle, bleeding in the dirt.

I kept my voice frail. "I'm sorry, Katrina. I really don't feel well. Mom will be furious if she finds out we're gone for too long. You should go and come back quickly."

I mentioned our mother on purpose. Sharon was Katrina's weakness, her shield, her most devoted audience.

Another pause, longer this time. She was weighing her options. Her ultimate goal was to be at Sunstone Ridge to meet him — the man who was supposed to be my fated mate. My presence wasn't strictly necessary for that part of her plan.

When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual syrupy sweetness. "Okay, sister. You get some rest, then. I'll be back as soon as I can."

I heard her footsteps retreat down the hall. Leaning my head back against the wall, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. A wave of nausea washed over me, the aftershock of the confrontation.

She's had her memories for a while. The thought was a shard of ice in my gut. Long enough to procure the Moonpetal paste, to test it, to apply it perfectly while I slept.

Her target was Sunstone Ridge. And the destiny that waited there. My destiny.

I pushed myself off the wall and moved to the window, pulling back the lace curtain just enough to see the backyard. A minute later, Katrina emerged from the side door, a small backpack slung over her shoulder. She cast a furtive glance back at the house before scurrying toward the tree line.

There was no worry on her face. Only the greedy, triumphant excitement of a thief about to claim her prize.

I watched until she was swallowed by the shadows of the forest. I didn't call out. I didn't run to tell our mother.

If she wanted that path so badly, she could have it.

I would not be the collateral damage of her ambition this time. I would not clean up her messes or suffer for her choices.

This time, I would be a spectator. I would watch her perform her solo act on a stage of her own making.

I let the curtain fall back into place, plunging the room into a soft gloom. My own path lay before me, uncertain and fraught with dangers I couldn't yet see.

But first, I had to survive the storm that would break when our mother, Sharon, came home and found her precious Katrina missing.

And I, sick in my room, would have the perfect alibi.

Alexia POV:

I spent the morning in a kind of suspended animation, a quiet observer in my own life. I didn't try to warn anyone. I didn't feel the frantic need to find Katrina that would have consumed my sixteen-year-old self.

The past had taught me a bitter lesson: in our mother's eyes, any trouble involving Katrina was, by default, my fault. My protests were lies, my silence guilt.

So this time, I embraced the silence.

It was just after lunch when Agnes, our stern, grey-haired housekeeper, knocked on my door. Her expression was as starched as her uniform.

"Miss Alexia, your mother wishes to see you in the study. Immediately."

The summons had arrived. The trial was about to begin.

I followed her down the grand staircase, my steps measured and calm. The house felt cavernous, each footfall echoing in the heavy silence.

In the mahogany-paneled study, my mother, Sharon Mitchell, sat behind our father's enormous desk like a queen on a throne. Her face was a mask of cold fury.

She didn't waste time with greetings. The moment I stepped inside, she slapped a folded piece of paper onto the desk. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

"Where is Katrina? She left this note. It says you convinced her to go to Sunstone Ridge."

I glanced at the note. The loopy, overly embellished handwriting was unmistakably Katrina's. I had to give her credit; she was thorough in her treachery.

In my first life, I would have dissolved into a panicked torrent of denials. Now, I simply met my mother's glare.

"I've been in my room all day. I haven't been feeling well."

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in disbelief. "How convenient. Every time Katrina gets into trouble, you suddenly fall ill. Are you that jealous of your sister, Alexia?"

I lowered my gaze, letting my eyelashes shadow my cheeks. It was a gesture of submission she expected, one I had perfected over years of her interrogations.

"No, Mother." My voice was a soft, weary whisper.

My placid acceptance seemed to enrage her more than any argument would have. "You will stay in your room until Katrina returns. You will not have visitors, and you will not leave for any reason. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

The punishment was exactly what I wanted. A prison that was also my sanctuary. A sentence that was also my alibi.

I turned and walked out of the study, feeling her hot, angry glare on my back.

Back in my room, the adrenaline that had sustained me faded, replaced by a profound exhaustion. The mental strain of the day was taking its toll.

That evening, Lena, my personal maid and the only person in this house who showed me any kindness, brought me a simple tray of soup and bread. Her young face was etched with worry.

"Miss, it's Master Aaron," she whispered, setting the tray down. "He has a fever. A very high one."

My hand, reaching for the spoon, paused. Aaron. My ten-year-old brother. In another life, another one of my tormentors.

"The doctor will take care of him," I said, my voice cool.

Lena hesitated, wringing her hands. "But... he keeps crying for Miss Katrina. He won't let anyone else near him."

I felt nothing. A cold, empty void where sympathy should have been. I would not be drawn into their drama.

But as night fell, Aaron's cries turned into pained, delirious moans that seeped through the walls. Around midnight, there was a frantic knock on my door. It was Martha, Aaron's nanny, her face pale with panic.

"He's talking nonsense, Miss Alexia. The doctor gave him medicine, but he spits it out. He's burning up."

She was practically pleading. "Please, could you just come see him? Maybe seeing family will calm him down."

My first instinct was to refuse. To lock the door and let them handle the mess they had created. But Martha's eyes were filled with genuine terror, and she looked as if she was about to fall to her knees. With a sigh pulled from the depths of my soul, I got up.

Aaron's room was hot and smelled of sickness. He was thrashing in his bed, his face flushed a painful, deep red, his lips cracked and dry. He flung his arms about wildly, his voice a hoarse rasp.

"Katrina... where... Katrina..."

I walked to his bedside and dipped a washcloth in the basin of cool water. Wringing it out, I gently laid it across his forehead.

The sudden coolness seemed to soothe him. He stilled, his frantic movements ceasing. His eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused and glassy. He blindly reached out, his small, hot hand closing around my wrist.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he brought my hand to his burning cheek, nuzzling against my skin with a pathetic, dependent whimper.

"Sister..." he mumbled, the word slurred and barely audible.

It wasn't Katrina's name. It was the title he hadn't used for me in years — not without a sneer attached.

And in that moment, hearing that single, untainted word, a crack appeared in the glacier around my heart. A tiny, unfamiliar warmth seeped through, a phantom feeling I could only identify as love.