Chapter 5: The Mask Begins

Adrian wasn't home when I finally dragged myself off the couch.

Thank God.

I'd spent the rest of the day after Maribel left sitting in silence, cataloging every memory, every moment, every detail of the life I'd lived or would live or had dreamed? The semantics didn't matter. What mattered was that I now knew the truth, and I had to act on it.

But every time I thought about confronting Adrian, my hands would curl into fists and I'd imagine them wrapped around his throat. Or reaching for that razor in the bathroom. Or pushing him down a staircase and watching him break the way I had broken.

I couldn't kill him. Not yet. Not without proof. Not without a plan.

So I needed distance. Control. A mask to hide behind while I figured out what to do next.

First thing: money. I needed to stop hemorrhaging money into Adrian's bottomless pit of debt. The inheritance was three years away, but before it came, there would be legal battles. My uncles, those vultures who'd cast me out after my grandfather died wouldn't give up their claim easily. I remembered the death threats. The late-night phone calls with voices promising to make me disappear. The attack that left both Adrian and me bruised and bloodied in an alley.

Adrian had blamed me for it afterward. Subtly, of course. "If you'd just let them have some of it, this wouldn't have happened." As if being beaten was my fault for daring to claim what was rightfully mine.

I needed money for lawyers. For security. For independence.

Which meant I needed to work. And I needed to stop playing the role of Adrian's personal ATM.

I looked at the clock. 7:47 AM. I was supposed to be at Vale Company by eight.

Shit.

I rushed to my bedroom, throwing open the closet with more force than necessary. And then I stopped.

Stared.

My wardrobe was a graveyard of self-loathing. Oversized sweaters. Baggy jeans. Shapeless dresses with floral prints that screamed "I'm trying to disappear." Nothing fitted. Nothing flattering. Nothing that suggested I had a body worth looking at.

I'd dressed like this my whole adult life. Hiding. Making myself smaller, less noticeable, less threatening. Tall women weren't supposed to take up space. Women with small breasts weren't supposed to be sexy. Women with long legs were supposed to cover them up unless they wanted the wrong kind of attention.

All the rules I'd followed. All the ways I'd diminished myself.

In the hospital, during those endless days of chemo, I'd scroll through fashion blogs on my phone. Look at trendy outfits I'd never wear. Beautiful clothes on beautiful women who weren't dying. I'd imagine what it would be like to dress like that. To feel pretty. To feel alive.

But I'd been ashamed. Of my flat chest after the cancer ravaged me. Of my skeletal frame. Of my legs that seemed too long for my body, all angles and no curves.

I'd avoided mirrors for two years.

Now I stood in front of my closet, staring at clothes that represented a version of myself I hated, and something inside me snapped.

No.

No more hiding.

I tore through the closet, shoving aside the shapeless dresses until I found it—the pink skirt I'd bought for our engagement party. I'd worn it once, felt self-conscious the entire night, and buried it in the back of my closet. It was short. Too short, I thought then. The kind of length that showed off my legs instead of hiding them.

I pulled it out. Grabbed a white flowery blouse that at least had some shape to it. Laid them on the bed.

Then I stripped.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I really looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

I wasn't the dying woman from the hospital. Wasn't the skeleton wrapped in loose skin. I had curves—not many, but they were there. Small breasts, yes, but they existed. Long legs that were actually toned from all the running between jobs I'd been doing.

I wasn't ugly. I'd just been taught to believe I was.

I dressed quickly, my hands steadier than they'd been all morning. The skirt hit mid-thigh. Showed off legs that had carried me through ten-hour shifts and twenty-hour days. The blouse was fitted enough to suggest I had a waist.

I pulled my hair into a bun, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face. Then I opened the makeup bag I rarely touched.

Lipstick. A soft pink that matched the skirt. Mascara that made my lashes look longer, darker, more alive. I paused before applying it, remembering how my lashes had fallen out during chemo. How I'd watched them disappear, one by one, until there was nothing left.

My hand trembled slightly. A tear threatened to spill.

No. I blinked it back. I'd take care of myself this time. Even if I only had seven years, I'd spend them actually living instead of just surviving.

I finished the mascara and stepped back to look at the full effect.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Polished. Put-together. Pretty, even.

I almost didn't recognize her.

8:15 AM. Shit. I was late.

I grabbed my bag and ran.

---

Vale Company occupied a gleaming high-rise in downtown Ravenport. I usually took the regular elevator with all the other low-level employees, crammed in like sardines, trying not to make eye contact.

But I was late. And the regular elevators had lines.

The executive elevator stood empty, its brass doors gleaming like a promise. I knew I wasn't supposed to use it. Knew it was reserved for upper management, board members, executives.

I stepped inside anyway.

The doors were closing when a hand shot through, stopping them. They slid back open.

A man stepped in.

I recognized him immediately, though I'd only ever seen him from a distance. Lucien Vale. Adrian's older half-brother. The heir to Vale Enterprises, though you'd never know it from how he acted.

He was nothing like Adrian. Nothing.

Light brown skin, a shade darker than his brother's. A clean fade with curly hair on top that looked soft, touchable. But where Adrian dressed in expensive suits and designer cologne, Lucien looked like he'd stepped out of an old money catalog—perfectly tailored but understated. Dark slacks. A simple black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A watch that probably cost more than my yearly rent but didn't scream for attention.

He smelled expensive. Not cologne. Just... clean. Rich. Like the kind of wealth that didn't need to prove itself.

And his eyes. God, his eyes. The same color as Adrian's, that pale gray-green, but where Adrian's were charming and empty, Lucien's were dark. Intense. Like someone who'd seen things. Done things. Someone who carried secrets that would destroy you if you got too close.

Adrian had told me Lucien was an asshole. Difficult. Impossible to work with. A genius, yes, but cruel and calculating and not worth knowing.

Right now, I hate Adrian's entire family. Including Lucien.