Chapter 7

I walked slowly toward the living room, the floor creaking under my feet, my breath catching in my throat as I glanced around. It was too clean. Like hotel-clean. Like someone had bleached the soul out of it.

There was a faint chemical tang still hanging in the air—harsh, acidic, unmistakable.

Bleach. My heart dropped. The couch cushions were fluffed. The coffee table gleamed unnaturally.

Even the faded rug looked scrubbed.

I turned in a slow circle. It was too clean. Too perfect.

He was here.

Elias had cleaned everything. Just like in my memory.

And that’s when I saw it. In the far corner of the room, just beside the baseboard, where the vacuum must’ve missed—it peeked out. A torn piece of paper. My hands shook as I crouched down and picked it up.

It was soggy. Frayed at the edges. Faint printed numbers still clinging to the surface.

And on the corner… A tiny, dried smear of blood.

My stomach turned. The room spun. I clutched the paper to my chest as I dropped onto the couch, shaking.

It wasn’t a dream.

The bleach. The fight. The ticket. The knife.

My death. It happened. But the question that clawed at my mind like a wild animal wasn’t what happened—

It was why I wasn’t dead.

Why did I come back? Why did my body show no scars? Why was that voice in the void so clear?

“I heard your wish, child…”

What wish? To die? To be free?

****

The next day, after hours of tossing and turning, thinking and overthinking, I decided to do the most basic thing a living, breathing adult had to do—

Withdraw my emergency fund.

I had exactly $1,800 tucked away in a dusty, long-forgotten account that I only used when life decided to sucker-punch me in the kidneys. And since I’d just been stabbed by my uncle and resurrected by what I can only assume was divine sass, this definitely qualified.

Was $1,800 enough? No.

But was it the difference between eating canned beans in the dark or keeping the lights on and my dignity barely intact? Yes.

I threw on a faded gray shirt, one of those oversized ones that had "I ♥ NY" written in cracked letters, and shoved my wet hair under a baseball cap. My jeans were tight—not in the good way—and my shoes, well, let’s just say the sole was hanging on by a thread and pure determination.

It was raining again. Because of course it was. Because my life had clearly taken a turn for the dramatic and now the weather had to match the vibe.

The bank was only a few blocks away, so I walked, dodging puddles like a broke, caffeinated ninja. My socks were already wet. Mood: soggy but focused.

When I finally stepped inside the bank, the warmth hit me like a hug I didn’t ask for. It was too bright. Too quiet. Too full of people who looked like they actually had money.

I did not look like I belonged.

At all.

I approached the counter. The teller, a woman maybe my age with perfect eyeliner and nails like she was about to audition for a claw-themed superhero movie, smiled with corporate politeness.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

I cleared my throat. “Hi. I’d like to withdraw… $1,800. Please.”

Her eyebrow raised like I just growed horn. She looked at me up and down with judgemental eyes.

Until she glanced at her screen. Her fingers froze over the keyboard.

She blinked. Her entire body language shifted like I just asked to buy the building.

“Ma’am…” she said slowly, eyes scanning me from my damp cap to my peeling sneakers. “Are you… sure you want to withdraw $1,800?”

I frowned, confused. “Yes. That’s what I said.”

She stared at me like I just walked in wearing a trash bag and said I was the Queen of England.

Then she leaned to the side and hit a button under her desk.

“One moment, please. I’m going to get the branch manager.”

Now I was really confused. I mean, what was this?

Was $1,800 suddenly VIP-level cash?

I looked behind me. No line. No cameras. No FBI agents waiting to arrest me. Just me, my wet shoes, and my two remaining ounces of dignity.

Within seconds, a sharply dressed man in a blue suit and gold tie emerged from the office like he was walking a red carpet.

“Ms. McLaren?” he asked carefully.

My frown deepened. “Yes?”

He extended his hand, overly polite. “May I speak with you in private?”

Private? For $1,800?! I raised a brow. “Is this about my withdrawal? Because if it is, I’m just trying to buy groceries, not a yacht.”

He chuckled nervously. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just… Well, um, you are our VIP after all.”

I crossed my arms. I wasn’t in the mood. “VIP?”

He leaned in closer and whispered, “Perhaps you’d like to come to the office first… ma’am.”

He called me ma’am. The audacity. I’m twenty-something, soggy, and emotionally unstable, not his auntie.

But I followed him anyway. Because something was off. Very off.

"My apologies for the delay in processing your withdrawal, ma’am," the mustached manager said as he ushered me into the massive glass-walled office. He looked like the kind of man who ironed his socks and judged people based on their penmanship. “But you see… $1,800 is quite a large amount. We couldn’t just—”

I blinked at him, my damp sneakers squelching against the carpet. Was this guy serious?

“Wait—wait—are you serious right now?” I asked, crossing my arms. “That’s my remaining money. $1,800 is basically a penny in this bank compared to what your real VIPs carry. Right?”

His eyes went wide. Like cartoon wide.

Like I just told him I was Beyoncé in disguise.

“Uh… n-no, ma’am. It’s not.” He adjusted his tie nervously, typing something frantically on his sleek little monitor. “We, uh… we’ve updated your bank records just this morning.”

I raised a brow, suspicious. “Okay? And?”

He hesitated. “Well… you’ve become a VIP client due to your, um, updated account balance.”

Pause.

“Come again?”

“You’re… you’re a VIP now,” he said, gulping. “Because of your balance.”

I stared at him like he’d grown a second mustache. Now I was really confused.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked slowly.

“No ma’am,” he said, pushing his keyboard away and turning his monitor slightly toward me. “I wouldn’t joke about this.” He reached for a nearby drawer and handed me my old, dusty passbook—the one I hadn’t touched in months, maybe even a year. It still had a faded sticker of a smiling eggplant on the cover because I was that kind of person.

I opened it with zero expectations.

Probably an error. Maybe the decimal point danced around. Maybe my measly $1,800 got turned into $1,801.

And then— I saw the numbers.

$10,000,1800

Ten million, one thousand and eight hundred freaking dollars.

I froze. The passbook slipped slightly from my fingers.

My jaw? On the floor. My soul? Momentarily left my body. “W-what the hell—” I whispered, blinking furiously.

Ten. Million. Dollars.