The Price of a Soul

Evelyn knew the verdict before a single word was uttered. It was in the way her mother stood—spine rigid, chin tilted, a calculated three feet of distance maintained between them.

It wasn’t the posture of a grieving mother. It was the posture of a woman managing a PR crisis.

"Evelyn," Eleanor Carter’s voice was clipped, devoid of the warmth that usually flowed toward Iris. "It’s just you. That space... the outbuilding... it’s enough."

Evelyn didn’t respond.

Three years in a locked shed. Sleeping on damp earth beside animals that were treated better than she was. She had hallucinated this homecoming a thousand times—the door swinging open, the smell of her mother’s lavender perfume, the words you’re safe now.

Instead, she had escaped one hell only to find herself in another. And this one had her family’s name on the gate.

"This is wrong," Ethan snapped, his sudden outburst shattering the stifling silence. "Aunt Eleanor—she’s your biological daughter. You can't put her in a kennel."

Iris’s hand tightened on Ethan’s sleeve. Her voice was a soft, jagged blade. "Why so emotional, Ethan? Is it because you still love her?"

The room turned to ice.

Ethan’s gaze flicked to Evelyn. For a split second, he looked like the boy she had once loved—the one who had promised to protect her forever. But then his eyes took in her sallow skin, her ragged clothes, and the dark rumors that clung to her like a shroud.

The man who had once been her world looked away. "I don’t," he said, his voice flat. "I just... I feel sorry for her."

"Pity is fine," Iris purred, leaning her head on his shoulder. "But pity doesn't make her healthy. Letting her stay at all is an act of charity, given the circumstances."

Charity. As if Evelyn hadn't once owned half the ground Iris was standing on.

"You can use the servant's bathroom downstairs," Eleanor added, her tone softening as if she were doing Evelyn a massive favor. "Stay in the back house for now. We’ll... discuss a more permanent arrangement once things settle."

The downstairs bathroom. For staff and guests. The family lived on the second floor, behind reinforced doors.

Every word was a precision strike. Evelyn understood now. They had already mourned her—quietly, privately—and in the void she left behind, Iris had taken root.

Evelyn didn't argue. She walked to the velvet sofa, sat down, and faced them with a calm that made Iris’s smile falter.

"The kennel is yours," Evelyn said evenly. "I’ll take the couch."

"What are you doing?" Eleanor’s voice rose an octave.

Evelyn didn’t answer. She lay down, closed her eyes, and let the silence expose them. She wasn't a daughter; she was an inconvenience.

By evening, the house could no longer ignore the "stain" in the living room. Finally, Eleanor relented, tossing a stack of clothes onto the sofa. "Go shower. There’s a maid’s room downstairs. You’ll stay there."

Evelyn opened her eyes. She sat up and looked at the silk fabric. "These aren’t mine."

"They’re Iris’s," Eleanor said, refusing to meet her gaze. "Your room was... cleared during the renovations."

"Renovations?"

"We combined your old suite with Iris’s. She needed a larger walk-in closet for the wedding prep."

Evelyn let out a short, dry laugh. It wasn't humor; it was the sound of a final tie snapping. "So you assumed I was dead, and within a year, you turned my life into a shoe rack."

Eleanor didn't flinch. She returned a moment later with a jewelry case. Iris followed, her eyes bright and predatory.

"I kept these for you," Iris said sweetly, holding out a diamond bracelet. "Now that you’re back... consider them a gift."

Charity again.

Evelyn didn't touch the jewels. She didn't see memories; she saw liquid assets.

"Thank you," Evelyn said lightly. "Does it hurt? Giving back things you got used to wearing?"

Iris’s smile didn't reach her eyes. She touched the ruby pendant at her own throat—the one Ethan had given Evelyn for her twentieth birthday. "Which one do you like? I can help you put it on."

"That one," Evelyn pointed at the ruby. "I like that one."

Iris went still. Her fingers flew to the necklace. "Ethan gave this to me. It’s... special."

"Evelyn," Eleanor warned. "Don't be unreasonable."

"And she wasn't?" Evelyn’s voice dropped. "When she took what was mine?"

No one spoke. Evelyn gathered the jewelry case and walked away. She didn't fight for a seat at their table. She didn't need their bread. She just needed their gold.

The next morning, the Carter house felt lighter. The "problem" was gone.

"Where is she?" Iris asked over breakfast, her voice laced with fake concern. "She has nothing. What if she gets into trouble?"

"Probably gone to beg some old friends for help," Robert said, not looking up from his paper. "Once the rumors reach them, she’ll be back with her tail between her legs."

But Evelyn was miles away.

She spent the morning at a high-end pawn shop. No negotiation. No sentiment. She sold every diamond, every gold link, every scrap of the Carter name.

She wasn't selling ornaments. She was funding a war.

She changed into a sharp, understated suit, cut her hair into a blunt, lethal bob, and bought a burner phone. Then, she logged into her hidden investment account—a legacy from her grandmother that her parents hadn't known about.

The balance had grown. Seven figures.

Money didn’t judge. Money didn’t care if you’d slept in a shed.

At the private hospital, she booked a full forensic medical exam. Not for her family, but for herself. She needed to know exactly what the three years had taken.

She stepped into a crowded elevator.

In the corner stood a man in a pristine white coat.

Lucien Hale.

His gaze flicked to her, and for the first time, a shadow of surprise crossed his unreadable features. She didn't greet him. She didn't owe him politeness.

The elevator surged. A nurse pushed from behind, and Evelyn stumbled, her shoulder brushing Lucien’s chest. She felt the hard muscle beneath the lab coat—a wall of cold, clinical power.

"Sorry," she said curtly, regaining her balance.

Lucien’s eyes dropped to the lab forms in her hand. "Still checking for ghosts?"

"Unlike your performance yesterday," Evelyn replied, her eyes meeting his with a defiance that would have withered any other man, "I prefer certainty over a 'professional opinion'."

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. "You have a dangerous talent for making enemies out of your only allies."

"Then stop giving me reasons to doubt you," she countered.

The elevator climbed in a thick, vibrating silence.

As the doors opened, Lucien leaned in, his voice a low vibration near her ear. "Now I understand why your family doesn’t believe you. You’re far too sharp to be a victim, Evelyn. And people hate being reminded that they failed to kill you."

The air between them turned sharp enough to cut. Evelyn stepped out without looking back, but she could feel his eyes on her spine all the way down the hall.