Chapter 5

Mila's hands did not start shaking until she got to the back stairwell.

She pressed her spine against the cool plaster and let out a breath she has been holding for two lifetimes. A laugh claws up her throat, and she has to clamp her palm over her mouth to trap it.

She just told The Cavan Wended to say please.

She could not believe she was still that Mila Collins who once apologized to a chair after bumping into it.

In her first life, she would have taken that glass and run as far as she could. She would have murmured sorry, then spent the night replaying the moment in shame. She remembers being that girl so clearly that it feels like a story about a stranger.

But tonight, when his fingers snapped in the air, something inside her went perfectly still. It was the same stillness she felt in the hospital right before the world went dark. Only this time, it felt like waking up.

I am not afraid of you.

She meant every word and that is the part that thrills her most.

She smooths her dress, wipes the grin from her face and starts back toward the party with her head high. She makes it exactly four steps before the thrill curdles.

Cavan Wendell is not just a rude man at a dinner party. In her first life, he was a name that silenced boardrooms. She remembers the headlines. She remembers a rival CEO who mocked him on live television and was bankrupt within the year. She just stood up to him fearlessly.

Her stomach drops.

Oh, no.

She picks up her tray, retreats to the kitchen and works until the last guest leaves, because scrubbing silver is easier than thinking of what comes next.

The front door has barely closed when the house erupts.

"Twenty minutes!" Richard Collins paces the living room, wrenching his tie loose. "He stayed twenty minutes and said almost nothing. Is that good? Is that bad?"

"He said his team would review the figures," Margaret soothes. "That sounds promising."

"It sounds like a polite no!"

Mila stands in the doorway with a stack of dirty plates and a face as blank as paper. Her father has no idea what happened in that hallway. He spent the entire night sweating in his study, praying for a miracle.

Only one person saw anything. She is curled on the sofa under a cashmere blanket, watching Mila with calm, curious eyes.

"Mila served him a drink," Sophia says sweetly. "He seemed very interested."

The plates rattle in Mila's hands.

She saw the glass.

"Did he?" Richard swings around, suddenly sharp. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing, Father. He asked me for water and I brought it."

"That was all?"

"That was all."

It is not a lie. It is only the smallest possible truth.

Richard studies her for a long moment, then waves her off in disgust. "At least you didn't embarrass us. Stay away from him."

"Of course."

Sophia's smile does not move, but her fingers tighten on the blanket.

Mila is halfway up the stairs when her mother's voice stops her.

"Mila, a word."

Margaret waits at the bottom with a small white envelope in her hand. Mila recognizes the bank's logo from across the room and her blood turns to ice.

"This came for you," Margaret says. "I opened it, since you live under my roof. It confirms you moved two thousand, three hundred dollars out of your account three weeks ago. You promised to return that money."

"I haven't had a chance to go to the bank."

"You've had three weeks."

"I was ill."

"You were sneaking." Margaret climbs two steps, eyes glittering. "We raised you, Mila; we fed you, clothed you and gave you a roof over your head. Is this how you repay us?"

Raised me. Mila almost laughs.

"I'll go tomorrow," she says.

"We’ll go first thing tomorrow morning and I will stand beside you while you transfer every cent."

That is a problem. The old account is empty and the money is already working somewhere her mother will never see.

"Of course, Mother," Mila murmurs. "Whatever you think is best."

Margaret sweeps away, satisfied, and Mila climbs the rest of the stairs with a meek smile pinned in place and a dozen plans racing behind it.

In her room, she wedges a chair under the doorknob and pulls her notebook from beneath the mattress.

Option one: claim the account is closed.

Option two: pay it back from Nova.

Option three: let them take it.

She stares at the third line for a long time. It's a little over two thousand dollars. Her adopted mother is fighting over crumbs while a fortune sleeps beneath her roof and she has no idea.

A slow, cold smile spreads across her face.

Let them have their crumbs.

She will return the money in front of Margaret tomorrow, eyes lowered and shoulders bowed. Her mother will go home believing she has broken her daughter again.That is the beauty of being underestimated. It costs nothing and it buys everything.

She slides her hand under the pillow and finds the tiny bracelet, still warm from her palm. Baby Girl H. She traces the faded letters with her thumb. Someone out there loved her enough to leave a warning.

I will find you, she thinks. And I will find who took me.

A soft scrape sounds in the hallway.

Mila freezes.

It is the sound of a bare foot sliding across the floor. It stops outside her door, and for a long moment nothing happens. Then the handle turns, slowly, and catches on the chair.

She tucks the bracelet beneath the pillow, crosses the room without a sound and opens the door.

Sophia stands in the hall in her nightgown, holding a glass of water.

"Oh," she says, blinking. "I thought I heard you crying."

"I wasn't."

"Good." Sophia's gaze drifts past Mila's shoulder, over the desk, the bed and the corner of paper poking from beneath the mattress. "You've been so strange lately. I worry."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" Sophia tilts her head. "Only I noticed something at dinner, and I can't stop thinking about it."

Mila says nothing.

"Mr. Wendell never asks for water," Sophia murmurs. "Black coffee, always. It's in every magazine."

Her smile widens a fraction.

"So why did he ask you for one?"

The hallway turns cold.

Because he wanted to test me, Mila realizes. Or humiliate me. Or something worse.

"I wouldn't know," she says evenly. "You'll have to ask him."

"Maybe I will."

Sophia sips her water, watching Mila over the rim of the glass, then drifts away like a ghost in cream silk.

Mila closes the door, replaces the chair and leans against the wood while her heart pounds.

She made one enemy tonight on purpose.

She is no longer sure it was the right one.

She barely sleeps.

At dawn she dresses in her plainest gray dress and goes downstairs, ready to play the defeated daughter. Margaret is waiting by the door with her purse and car keys, lips pressed thin. But before either of them can speak, the study door bangs open.

Richard storms out, face the color of old paper, phone gripped in one fist and eyes wide with disbelief.

"Margaret. You will not believe it."

"What is it?"

"That was Wendell Group. His personal assistant is on his way." Richard is half laughing, half choking. "Mr. Wendell requested a private meeting."

Margaret gasps. At the top of the stairs, Sophia presses a hand to her chest.

"With you?" Margaret demands. "With the company?"

"No."

Richard turns slowly and looks straight at Mila with an expression she has never seen on his face.

"With her," he whispers. "He asked for Mila by name."