Chapter 1

KAIA'S POV:

The walls of the principal’s office feel like they’re closing in on me. My palms are sweaty, heart thundering as I step inside. Principal Davis sits stiffly behind her desk, her lips pressed into a thin line. But it’s the two unfamiliar people seated across from her that make my stomach sink.

Social workers. I’ve seen enough movies to recognize that kind of calm, the kind they put on when they’re about to drop a bombshell. Tight-lipped kindness. Gentle voices. Soft destruction.

"Kaia," Principal Davis says, her voice unnervingly gentle. "Please, have a seat."

I hope I'm not in any trouble but I can't even think of anything that can cause social services to show up here except...

I hover for a second, already on edge, then drop into the chair like I’m about to be sentenced.

The woman to her right leans forward, her blazer too neat, her clipboard too full. "My name is Mrs. Jennings, and this is Mr. Cole. We’re from Child Protective Services."

Panic skitters through me, fast and sharp. "Is something wrong?"

Mrs. Jennings and Mr. Cole exchange a look that makes my insides twist. Mr. Cole adjusts his tie, like the truth is a little too tight around his throat.

"Your foster parents were arrested early this morning," Mrs. Jennings says. "Drug trafficking."

Foster?

The words hang in the air like a punch I didn’t see coming.

I blink. Once. Twice. "What?"

She repeats it. Slower. Softer. But the second time doesn’t help.

"That’s not... they wouldn’t. I’ve lived with them forever. They are my parents. Why would you call them foster parents? And I'm sure ther must be a misunderstanding. They will never do such a thing. They’re just... strict."

They are just lying to me. It's probably just one big misunderstanding.

Mr. Cole folds his hands. "Kaia. You’re not their biological daughter."

Silence crashes over me like thunder.

I stare at them. At Principal Davis. At nothing. The world tilts on its axis.

"What do you mean I’m not their daughter?" My voice is barely a whisper.

Mrs. Jennings opens a folder. “You were adopted under unusual circumstances. There were gaps in your file. Things we only found out because of the investigation.”

"This is a mistake," I mumble. "There’s no one else. It's always just been me and them."

"There is someone else," she says, carefully. "Your biological family. You have three older brothers. They live in Canada.

I shake my head, slow, like if I go slow enough the lie will unravel itself. "No. I don’t have brothers. I'm the only child."

"You do." Mr. Cole’s tone is kind, but it doesn’t help. "And they’ve agreed to take you in."

Everything inside me hollows out.

"You will have to go home tonight and pack because we cannot let you live alone there much longer. You are not a legal adult yet, unfortunately." Mrs. Jennings says. "We’ve already arranged your flight for tomorrow morning."

These people are not serious are they? They just want to drop a bomb on me an proceed to ship me off to a country I've never been to before. Is this a soap opera??

"Tomorrow?" My voice rises. I can’t help it. "You’re just... just shipping me off like luggage?"

"This isn’t punishment, Kaia. This is a chance to be with your real family."

I want to laugh. Hysterically. Bitterly. "My real family?" I choke. "Where were they when I was six and hiding bruises under sweaters in summer? When I had to teach myself how to cook because my foster mom said I ate like a pig? When I begged not to be left alone with-"

Everything starts coming out before I can catch myself.

My voice breaks. I suck in a breath and look away.

Principal Davis clears her throat. She’s suddenly fascinated by her stapler. Did I really think she would even care?

I stand too quickly. My chair scrapes the floor with a screech. "I need to go."

"Kaia-" Mrs. Jennings starts.

But I’m already walking out, my breath shallow, vision blurry. I don't want their pity party. I don’t remember leaving the office. Don’t remember stepping outside the school. But suddenly the sun is too bright, the air too loud, and everything feels fake.

I walk home in a daze, the cold biting at my cheeks, but I don’t notice. I don’t notice anything until I’m standing in the doorway of the house I never wanted to call home.

Inside, it smells like bleach and old secrets. The TV is off. The silence presses against me.

I walk down the narrow hallway, into the room I’ve hated since I was old enough to understand what hate was. Everything in here is familiar, but suddenly it all looks foreign. Like a stage set. A bad imitation of a life.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks slightly under my weight. My fingers twitch as I glance around the room; white walls, creaky floorboards, the same purple curtain I begged for when I was eight because I thought maybe if my room looked happier, I’d feel happier too.

A framed photo sits on my nightstand. I pick it up.

It’s of me at five years old, sitting stiffly on my foster father’s lap. I’m smiling, but my eyes aren’t. His hand is on my shoulder, just a little too tight. I never noticed it before. Or maybe I did, and I buried it.

I stare at the photo for a long second before my hand moves on its own.

It crashes to the floor and shatters. Glass shards glitter on the carpet like bitter confetti.

I don’t breathe. I just sit there and look at the pieces of my past scattered around me. Sharp. Irreparable.

And then.... I cry.

Not the quiet tears I’ve mastered over the years. Not the kind you hide behind a pillow at night. This time, I cry like my soul is being wrung out. Loud. Messy. Ugly.

Because my entire life? It’s been a lie.

Everything I thought I knew is gone.

A fake family. A fake home. A childhood I was barely surviving through and it wasn’t even mine.

And now I’m supposed to just leave. Get on a plane. Meet three complete strangers and call them brothers?

I fall back onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow, letting the sobs take me under. The kind of cry that leaves you breathless and hollow.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t try to be strong. I don’t try to be okay.

Because I’m not. I don’t know if I ever was.