Chapter three

“Amara! If you don’t drag your heavy ass down these stairs right this fucking second, I swear to God I’m throwing your breakfast in the trash!”

Her mother’s, booming voice echoed up the narrow wooden stairwell like a crack of thunder.

Amara froze in the hallway outside her bedroom, her hand gripping the doorframe so tightly her knuckles turned white. Tears were still burning hot on her cheeks, but the sound of that voice loud, raspy, angry, and so unmistakably alive sent a violent jolt straight through her chest.

She took a shaky breath, forcing down the massive lump in her throat, and walked toward the small dining room.

The air in the house smelled of fried eggs, slightly burnt toast, and cheap black coffee. It was a mundane, ordinary morning smell, but to Amara, it was more intoxicating than any expensive perfume. It was completely different from the metallic stench of blood, cold rain, and cheap disinfectant that had filled her final moments in that dark alleyway.

Standing by the stove in a faded blue bathrobe, flipping pancakes with a cracked plastic spatula, was her mother.

She looked so young. Her hair wasn't gray yet. Her hands weren't swollen from the crippling arthritis that would take over her body in a few years. She was right there, moving around, breathing, cursing under her breath at the sizzling frying pan.

In her first life, Amara had taken every single second of this for granted.

“Your mom is just an ignorant blue collar worker, Amara,” Ethan’s smooth, poisonous voice echoed in her mind from ten years ago. “She’s holding you back. She doesn’t understand high society. If you stay around her, you’ll end up broke and fat just like her. Cut her off.”

And like a pathetic, brainwashed fool, Amara had listened.

She had argued with her mother constantly. She had yelled at her, called her oppressive, and eventually moved out the moment she turned eighteen to live in a cramped, dirty apartment with Ethan. She had stolen three thousand dollars from her mother’s secret emergency savings jar just to buy Ethan designer suit jackets for his first corporate interviews. And when her mother was hospitalized five years later with kidney failure, worked to the bone by double shifts at the diner, Amara hadn't even gone to see her. Because Ethan had demanded that she stay home to organize his party invatations instead.

Her mother had died completely alone in a cold hospital room, believing her only daughter hated her.

God, what a sick, selfish bitch I was, Amara thought, her heart twisting in excruciating, physical agony. What an absolute monster I let him turn me into.

“Are you deaf or just stupid today?” Mom suddenly snapped, slamming the spatula onto the counter and spinning around. “Why the hell are you standing there like a fucking statue? Sit down and eat! You’re going to miss the damn school bus, and I am not driving you to school when I have a shift starting in twenty minutes!”

Amara stood paralyzed in the doorway, staring at her mother's face.

“Amara?” Her mother’s harsh tone faltered slightly. Her dark eyebrows knitted together in sudden bewilderment as she took in her daughter's trembling lips and tear-soaked eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you staring at me like that? Did somebody fucking die in your dream?”

A ragged, choked sound escaped Amara’s throat.

Yes, she thought, her vision blurring as fresh tears spilled over her eyelashes. I died. I bled out like trash in a dark gutter while the bastard I chose over you watched me draw my last breath.

“I’m sorry...” Amara choked out, her voice breaking completely. She stepped into the kitchen, her knees feeling like jelly. “I’m so fucking sorry, Mom...”

Mom paused, the irritation dropping from her face, replaced by total, unadulterated confusion. “Sorry? Sorry for what? Did you break my good porcelain bowl? Did you spill bleach on my laundry? What the hell did you do?”

“No,” Amara whispered.

She collapsed onto the vinyl dining chair, reached across the plastic tablecloth, and grabbed her mother’s right hand.

It was warm. Her mother’s skin was rough, calloused from decades of hard work, but the pulse beating beneath her wrist was strong and steady. She was here. She wasn't buried in a cold cemetery.

Amara squeezed her mother’s hand with everything she had, burying her face against her mother's knuckles, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry for being a terrible daughter,” Amara wept, her shoulders shaking violently. “I’m sorry for complaining. I’m sorry for talking back to you. I’m sorry for every stupid, foolish thing I ever did...”

Mom stood frozen for a long moment, completely dumbfounded. She stared down at her seventeen-year-old daughter sobbing over her hand like the world was ending. Slowly, awkwardly, her rough fingers tightened around Amara’s hand.

“Are you out of your mind this morning?” Mom grumbled, though the sharp bite in her voice was completely gone, replaced by deep concern. “Amara, talk to me. What happened? Did that skinny, snobbish boy Ethan say something stupid to you again? Did he pick on you?”

At the sound of Ethan’s name, a surge of pure, icy venom coursed through Amara’s veins. Her weeping instantly stopped. She lifted her head, wiping her wet face with the back of her sleeve, her eyes burning with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“F**k Ethan,” Amara said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, deadly quiet order. “He’s nothing. He’s absolute fucking trash.”

Mom’s eyes widened in sheer shock. “Language! Since when do you cuss like a sailor at my breakfast table?”

“I don’t give a damn about him, Mom,” Amara choked out, letting out a watery, breathy laugh through her lingering tears. “He doesn't matter. Nobody matters except us. I love you, Mom. I fucking love you so much.”

Mom stared at her for several seconds, searching Amara’s red rimmed eyes. The line of her mouth softened, a rare, gentle expression washing over her tired, overworked face before she quickly tried to mask it with a tough scoff.

“Okay, now you’re seriously scaring the shit out of me,” Mom muttered, pulling her hand back to turn off the sizzling stove, though her fingers lingered on Amara’s shoulder for a tender second. “Did you ruin my good skillet? Or are you lying to me about failing your mock finals?”

For the first time since waking up in this second life, Amara let out a genuine, clear laugh a sound born of pure relief.

“No, Mom. I didn’t fail anything.” Amara stood up, grabbing a napkin to wipe her face, her chest feeling lighter than it had in ten long, agonizing years. “And I’m not going to fail ever again.”

“Good,” Mom grumbled, dishing two eggs onto a plate and sliding it in front of her. “Then eat your damn food and get your backpack. You’ve got a life to live, kiddo.”

Amara looked at the plate, then looked up at her mother, who was already bustling around the kitchen grabbing her work keys.

Yes, Amara vowed silently, picking up her fork as a cold, unwavering fire settled in her heart. I have a life to live. And this time, I’m going to protect the people who actually love me and utterly destroy anyone who tries to tear us down.