CHAPTER 2

ZARIA POV

The smell of cheap disinfectant and damp mold was a brutal downgrade from the lavender-scented silk sheets I used to sleep on.

I sat on the edge of a sagging mattress in a cramped, windowless boarding house room at the edge of the city. The ceiling fan hummed a rhythmic, irritating buzz overhead, doing absolutely nothing to clear the stifling heat. This room cost fifty dollars a week, paid in crumpled cash under a fake name, and it was officially my entire world.

I reached out with trembling fingers, picked up a small, cracked plastic mirror from the wobbly nightstand, and forced myself to look.

The reflection staring back at me wasn’t Zaria Ellison.

The girl in the mirror had jagged, pink burn scars rippling across the left side of her jawline and neck—courtesy of the jagged rocks and the exploding engine of a boat that had crashed near the shore where my broken body had washed up. A group of reclusive, off-the-grid fishermen had pulled me from the water three months ago. They didn't ask questions, and I didn't give answers. They just patched me up the best they could.

You look like a completely different person, I thought, tracing the rough, uneven texture of the skin. Good. Because Zaria Ellison needs to stay dead.

I dropped the mirror face down. It was safer this way. Just last week, I had risked walking past an electronics store window only to see my own smiling, unblemished face flashing on a news broadcast. The headline read: Tragic Loss: Ellison Heiress Declared Legally Dead After Horrific Cliffside Accident; Fiancé Tristan Vance Takes Over Interim CEO Position.

Seeing Tristan on that screen, wiping away fake tears while dressed in a custom black suit funded by my father's hard work, had ignited a cold, dangerous fire deep inside my chest. He and Aunt Elena had won the first round. They had my company, my money, and my life. They thought they had buried me.

But ghosts don't stay buried forever.

I stood up, walking over to the tiny chipped sink in the corner. I had spent the last of my meager savings on a few specific supplies: a cheap, oversized wig of coarse black hair, a pair of thick-rimmed, non-prescription glasses that distorted the shape of my eyes, and medical-grade scar prosthetics.

With meticulous care, I applied a liquid latex compound over my existing scars, intentionally making the texture look uneven, rough, and deeply unappealing. I pressed a fake, darkened mole onto my right cheek and adjusted the heavy glasses over the bridge of my nose. Finally, I pulled the lifeless, matted wig over my natural blonde hair, securing it tightly.

When I looked into the mirror again, the transformation was complete. The sleek, elegant billionaire heiress was completely gone. In her place stood a plain, visibly scarred, and utterly forgettable woman.

"My name is Gia," I whispered aloud to the empty room, testing the sound of it. My voice was a bit raspier now, a permanent reminder of the seawater that had filled my lungs. "Just Gia."

But hiding from Tristan and Elena wasn't going to get my life back. I needed a weapon. I couldn't just walk into a police station; Tristan had the local precinct in his pocket, and without the original will or physical proof of their corporate embezzlement, I would just be an unstable woman claiming to be a dead billionaire. I needed someone so powerful, so legally unassailable, that not even the Ellison Corporation's legal team could touch him.

My eyes drifted to a folded newspaper clipping on the small table. It was an article about Ellsworth Legal, the most ruthless and elite law firm in the country. The front page featured a sleek, imposing photo of its founder and managing partner: Soren Ellsworth.

The media called him the Devil’s Advocate, a billionaire lawyer who had never lost a single case in his entire career. He didn't take charity, he didn't care about sob stories, and he absolutely despised corporate corruption. More importantly, I knew from my father’s old business logs that Soren Ellsworth held a deep, long-standing grudge against the Vance family.

If anyone can dismantle Tristan’s legal claim to my empire, it’s him, I realized, staring at the sharp, aristocratic lines of Soren’s jaw in the photo. But a man like that won't just grant an interview to a nobody.

I had to get inside his orbit first.

Two days ago, I saw an online listing for an entry-level night shift janitress and data encoder position at the Ellsworth Legal tower. The pay was terrible, the hours were grueling, and the background check was minimal enough that my forged temporary ID passed through their automated system.

I grabbed my worn-out canvas backpack from the floor, checked my reflection one last time to ensure the prosthetics were securely glued to my skin, and locked the boarding house door behind me.

The night air was cool as I walked toward the glowing glass skyscraper that dominated the city skyline. The Ellsworth Legal building stood like a monolith of justice and wealth. Entering the lobby, the sheer opulence of the polished marble floors and towering glass ceilings briefly reminded me of the life I had lost.

I reported straight to the basement, where a gruff supervisor handed me a gray utility uniform, a mop bucket, and a keycard that granted access only to the executive floors after hours.

"Don't touch any files on the desks, don't look the attorneys in the eye if they stay late, and stay out of Mr. Ellsworth's office unless it's past midnight," the supervisor grunted, not even bothering to look up from his clipboard. "Get to work."

I nodded silently, dragging the heavy mop bucket into the elevator. As the doors closed and the lift shot upward to the top floor, my hands began to sweat inside my latex gloves. I was starting from the absolute bottom, surrounded by filth and secrets, but I was finally in the same building as the one man who could help me destroy Tristan and Elena.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the quiet, darkened hallway of the executive suite. I gripped the handle of my mop, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the shadows.