A cold rain was falling the day our family split in half—thin, needle-sharp drops that stung your cheeks like the world was trying to slap sense into you.

I stood on the cracked porch of our little house in suburban New Jersey, watching my mother’s taillights glow red in the gray dusk, watching my father’s hands tremble as he lit another cigarette he couldn’t afford. The air smelled like wet asphalt and cheap tobacco and something worse—fear.

Inside, the divorce papers lay on the kitchen table like a death certificate.

Two choices. Two futures.

One meant staying in this tired neighborhood with my father, a man who kept promising he’d quit gambling “after this one last bet.” It meant debt collectors pounding on the door, the electric bill taped with final notices, and the endless, suffocating stress of never knowing if we would wake up to an eviction notice.

The other choice meant leaving with my mother. She’d married again—fast—like grief was something you could outrun. Her new husband, Robert Henderson, was a wealthy businessman who lived in a gated coastal estate down in Connecticut, where the hedges were trimmed like they had their own personal stylist and the windows never looked like they’d been touched by a human hand.

My little sister Khloe stood between us like a coin being flipped.

She was sixteen, beautiful and stubborn, with eyes that always looked like she’d just dared the world to underestimate her.

In my first life, she had chosen our mother.

And I had chosen our father.

That choice had rewritten our destinies.

Because in that first life, my father eventually hit rock bottom, crawled out of it, and—miracle of miracles—became rich. He treated me like I was made of gold, like he couldn’t believe I’d stayed when everyone else left.

Khloe, meanwhile, went to live in Robert Henderson’s house.

And behind that mansion’s glittering gates, she endured a kind of loneliness that no one ever saw.

She wasn’t allowed to go out.

Wasn’t allowed to have friends.

Wasn’t allowed to laugh too loudly, speak too freely, take up too much space.

And after years of swallowing her own misery, she broke.

She didn’t die in a dramatic way.

She died the way people die when the world keeps pressing down until you can’t breathe anymore.

Stress. Silence. A slow collapse.

And when she was gone, I learned the ugliest truth of all.

My father didn’t turn his life around out of love.

He turned it around because I had destroyed myself keeping him afloat.

I had worked myself sick paying off his debts.

I had fought a brain tumor while dragging him toward sobriety like a boat carrying dead weight.

I died so he could finally wake up.

That was the price.

And then—somehow—I woke again.

Same porch.

Same rain.

Same cigarette smoke.

Same divorce papers.

Same two choices.

Only this time, before the adults could even finish explaining, Khloe moved.

She snatched the cigarette out of my father’s hand and threw her arms around him like she could physically anchor him to the earth.

“Dad,” she said, voice trembling, “I’m staying with you.”

My father froze.

A flicker of relief warmed his eyes like a candle in a dark room.

Khloe turned toward me, chin lifted, like she was proud of herself—like she’d just saved the family.

“Jade,” she said softly, using my name like a sweet secret, “I feel bad for Dad. You go live the good life with Mom. I’ll stay here and enjoy it for both of us.”

She smiled.

And it would’ve been almost touching… if I didn’t know what that smile was really built on.

Khloe didn’t remember our first life.

She didn’t remember how this story ended.

She didn’t know our father’s “redemption arc” came soaked in my blood.

And she definitely didn’t know that I wasn’t the same Jade anymore.

Not the hopeful one.

Not the sacrificial one.

Not the girl who kept giving and giving until she became a ghost.

This time, I wanted one selfish thing.

One good night of sleep.

One morning without panic.

One day where I wasn’t listening for the sound of strangers pounding on the front door demanding money.

I said nothing.

I simply picked up the train ticket my mother had placed on the table.

It was already bought.

Already decided.

Already paid for.

My father scoffed, irritation flashing across his face as if my existence was a hassle.

“Go,” he snapped, waving his hand like he was shooing away a stray cat. “Go find that mother of yours who only loves money.”

Khloe stuck her tongue out at me from behind his shoulder, like we were still little girls playing some twisted game.

My father leaned closer, eyes cold, voice like poison.

“And don’t come begging me for money later, Jade.”

I gave him a faint smile.

Because if he only knew…

I didn’t want his money.

I didn’t want his approval.

I didn’t even want his love.

I stepped into the rain and felt it soak through my cheap jacket instantly.

My shoulders trembled.

My head pounded like someone had poured molten metal into my skull.

That pain was familiar.

Too familiar.

Because even though this was a second chance… the sickness had followed me.

The brain tumor.

The constant cold.

The dizzy blackouts.

The nosebleeds that came out of nowhere like my body was quietly giving up.

Truthfully, anywhere would’ve been the same.

I just wanted somewhere quiet to run out the clock.

My mother’s black Mercedes was waiting at the intersection like a luxury hearse.

The tinted window slid down, revealing her perfectly maintained face—makeup flawless, hair styled, eyes sharp with judgment.

She looked at me like I was a stain.

“What happened to you?” she asked, disgusted by my soaked clothes. “Get in. And don’t dirty the car.”

I opened the back door.

Before I could sit down, she pointed at my backpack.

“Put that in the trunk. Who knows what kind of bacteria are on it.”

I hesitated.

Then obeyed.

Because I had learned, long ago, that my mother loved control more than she loved her children.

The leather seats were warm, but my body couldn’t stop shivering.

She drove as if the road belonged to her, hands steady, expression hard.

“Be sensible,” she said. “Robert doesn’t like noise. Stay in your room unless necessary. Don’t talk back. Don’t drag your feet when you walk. And don’t mention your father. He gets upset.”

I stared out the window at the rain streaking across the glass like tears the world refused to shed.

I nodded.

Everything went dark for a second—just a blink of unconsciousness—and I grabbed the headrest to steady myself.

My mother’s eyes flicked toward me.

“What’s wrong?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” I lied. “Carsick.”

She scoffed.

“Just like your father.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed the bitterness.

If there was a next life after this one… I wouldn’t come back at all.

Five hours later, we pulled up to the Henderson villa halfway up a mountain in coastal Connecticut, where the air smelled like pine trees and money.

The house looked like something built to impress people who didn’t even deserve to be impressed.

Lights glowed behind tall windows—cold, lifeless, perfect.

My mother parked, fixed her lipstick in the rearview mirror, and inhaled slowly.

In one breath, she transformed.

The sharp-tongued woman who spoke to me like I was trash vanished.

In her place appeared a gentle, elegant wife.

“Get out,” she murmured. “Remember to greet him.”

I grabbed my backpack and followed her inside.

The living room was enormous, so spotless it didn’t feel lived in. A man sat on the sofa with a blanket over his legs, a book in his hand.

He looked up when we entered.

Robert Henderson.

The man who had killed my sister in my first life without ever laying a finger on her.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t frown.

He simply looked at me as if I was a piece of furniture being delivered.

“You’re back,” he said to my mother, voice flat.

My mother pushed me forward, smile bright.

“Go on, greet Mr. Henderson.”

I stepped forward.

“Hello, Mr. Henderson.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

He turned a page.

Several seconds passed, thick with tension.

Then, without lifting his eyes, he gave a faint hum.

His gaze swept over my thin frame—too thin, even for someone my age—and his brows tightened almost imperceptibly before returning to his book.

“The first room on the left on the second floor is the guest room,” he said. “Take it.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

My mother let out a relieved breath like she’d been holding it for years.

She pulled me upstairs, whispering furiously.

“You have to be obedient. If you make him angry, you won’t survive in this house.”

The guest room was huge, but empty in a way that made my skin crawl.

When she turned to leave, I spoke.

“Mom.”

She turned, annoyed.

“What now?”

“I want to change rooms.”

Her expression darkened instantly.

“Jade, you just got here and you’re already being picky? This room is a hundred times better than that miserable hole your father lives in. Don’t be ungrateful.”

I waited until she finished, then said calmly:

“This room is too cold. I want one that faces south.”

Her eyes widened like I’d insulted her.

“The south-facing rooms are Robert’s study and a storage room.”

“I’ll take the storage room.”

She stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

“You want the storage room? So Robert thinks I’m abusing you?”

My head felt like it would burst.

I clenched my jaw.

“I’m just cold.”

Then there was a knock on the door.

Robert stood there holding a glass of water, face emotionless.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

My mother instantly switched personas again.

“Nothing, Robert. She’s just being difficult—complaining about the room.”

Robert looked at me directly.

“Which room do you want?”

“The south-facing one,” I said, pointing toward the storage room at the end of the hall. “It gets sunlight.”

He studied me for a long moment.

Then, surprisingly, he nodded.

“Fine. But don’t raise your voice in the hallway.”

And he walked away.

Just like that.

My mother slapped my forehead lightly the second he was gone.

“You embarrassed me.”

I ignored her, carried my backpack down the hallway, and opened the storage room door.

Dust blew out like the room had been holding its breath for years.

But sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Golden.

Warm.

Alive.

Tomorrow, when the sun rose, this place would be the only spot in the entire mansion that felt like it belonged to a human being.

That was all I needed.

I made the bed with stiff movements, hid my photo album under the pillow, and tucked my medical diagnosis inside it like a buried confession.

As long as I didn’t die, no one would ever search my belongings.

That night, for the first time in months…

I slept deeply.

No debt collectors.

No shouting.

No cigarettes.

Just darkness.

And silence.

But peace, I learned, never lasts long in a house built on control.

Because after a few days of me staying invisible, Robert began passing by the storage room more often.

Sometimes he would pause in the doorway, watching me sit in the sunlight, still as a statue.

He never spoke.

But his eyes held something strange.

Like recognition.

Like he was looking at someone who didn’t belong in the world of the living either.

And then the calls began.

My phone vibrated at dinner one night—too loud in the silent dining room—and Robert frowned as if the sound itself offended him.

My mother’s eyes cut toward me, warning sharp as a blade.

“Turn it off,” she hissed.

I silenced it, but the name on the screen made my stomach tighten.

Dad.

I declined the call.

It rang again.

Declined.

A third time.

Robert set down his chopsticks slowly.

“Go answer it,” he said quietly. “The noise is giving me a headache.”

I walked onto the balcony and answered.

The moment the line connected, my father’s shouting exploded through the speaker like a gunshot.

“JADE! DID YOU TAKE THE HOUSEHOLD SAVINGS? KHLOE SAID THE MONEY IS GONE!”

I held the phone away from my ear.

“That was my summer job money,” I said evenly. “I earned it.”

“You earned it for the household!” he snapped. “I can’t even buy cigarettes now. Transfer it back!”

I heard crashing noises in the background, his curses, the sound of something being thrown.

Then his voice lowered into something uglier.

“Useless brat. I should’ve—”

I inhaled, jaw tight.

“I didn’t steal anything. That money was for medical bills.”

“Medical bills?” he scoffed. “Since when do you have a disease? Stop acting like some dramatic heroine. Transfer the money or I’ll come to your school and cause a scene.”

I looked out at the garden below.

Bright red flowers bloomed in neat rows like blooddrops against green.

“You chose your path,” I said softly. “Walk it on your knees if you have to.”

Then I hung up.

And blocked his number.

When I turned back toward the glass doors, warmth trickled down my nose.

I touched it.

My fingertips came away smeared with red.

Blood.

Panic shot through me.

I rushed to the bathroom, staring at the mirror as crimson streaks ran down my face like my body was quietly punishing me for existing.

Behind me, a voice spoke.

“What are you doing?”

Robert.

I froze.

He handed me a clean towel, expression unreadable.

“Does this happen often?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” I lied, wiping my face quickly.

“You should go to the hospital.”

“It’s an old condition.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he said something that made my chest tighten.

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells here.”

I stared at him.

Because the scent on the towel—faint, medicinal—made a cold realization spread through me.

I recognized it.

The way he moved.

The way his face was too calm.

The way his eyes sometimes looked past people like he was already halfway gone.

He wasn’t healthy.

He was hiding it.

He was dying too.

And in that moment, I understood the truth.

This mansion wasn’t a haven.

It was a waiting room.

Two ghosts under the same roof.

And somewhere behind us, my sister Khloe was still clinging to our father, thinking she’d chosen the “right” future…

without knowing she’d just locked herself inside the worst one.

The morning after that nosebleed, the mansion felt even colder—like the walls had absorbed my blood and decided they liked the taste of fear.

Sunlight poured into the storage room in a bright ribbon, but it didn’t reach the corners. It never did. It only warmed the exact square where I sat, curled in an old velvet chair, trying to pretend I wasn’t living on borrowed time.

Downstairs, I heard the faint click of heels—my mother, pacing.

She always paced when she was nervous. And my mother was always nervous in Robert Henderson’s house, because in that house, she was not a wife.

She was an employee pretending she was loved.

I didn’t need to see her face to know what she was thinking. I’d spent eighteen years studying my mother like a survival skill.

Robert liked silence.
Robert liked order.
Robert liked a woman who knew when to smile and when to disappear.

Which meant my mother was constantly trying to erase herself… and failing.

That afternoon, she appeared in my doorway without knocking.

Her eyes flicked to the sunlight, then to my face, as if she was irritated I looked less miserable than she expected.

“Your hair,” she said immediately, voice sharp. “It’s falling out again.”

I lowered my book slowly, keeping my expression neutral.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” she snapped. “You look sick.”

I almost laughed.

Because yes, I was sick.

But my mother didn’t say “sick” the way someone says it when they’re worried about their child.

She said it the way someone says it when they’re worried about how a stain will look on white fabric.

“Don’t walk around looking like that,” she continued. “Robert will think something is wrong.”

Something is wrong, I thought.

Everything is wrong.

But I nodded, because arguing with her never changed anything. It just gave her another excuse to call me dramatic.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“And you need to stop answering your father’s calls. He’s causing trouble again.”

That made my fingers tighten around the book.

“Trouble?”

My mother’s lips pinched.

“Khloe called me last night. She said your father is furious about the money.”

I lifted my chin.

“That money was mine.”

My mother stared at me like I had spoken a foreign language.

“Jade,” she said slowly, like she was explaining something to a toddler, “you don’t have money. You’re a child. Anything you ‘earned’ belongs to the household. That’s how family works.”

It hit me then—how deeply my mother believed it.

In her mind, family didn’t mean love.

It meant ownership.

You belonged to the household.

Your time, your body, your money.

If you had anything valuable, it wasn’t yours. It was theirs.

I swallowed and asked quietly, “What did Dad say?”

My mother rolled her eyes.

“He said Khloe is ‘being difficult.’ That she’s whining because the debt collectors came by again. He needs cash. Immediately.”

Her mouth twisted as if she hated even repeating it.

“And he told her to call me.”

Of course he did.

My mother exhaled sharply and stepped into my room, lowering her voice.

“Listen carefully,” she said. “I cannot have Robert hearing about this. He hates chaos. He hates noise. He hates embarrassment.”

I stared at her.

“And?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“And you are going to talk to him.”

My stomach dropped.

“No.”

She stepped closer, voice turning sweet in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Jade,” she murmured, “just ask Robert for a small loan.”

“No.”

Her sweetness snapped like a rubber band.

“You selfish little—”

“No,” I repeated, calmly this time. “I’m not begging him for Dad.”

My mother’s face flushed.

“You think you can sit in your sunny little room while your sister suffers? While your father is being threatened?”

I looked at her, and for a second… I saw the truth beneath the performance.

My mother didn’t care about my father.

She didn’t even care about Khloe.

She cared about what it would look like if she didn’t fix it.

She cared about how the story would be told.

She cared about saving face.

“Khloe chose that life,” I said quietly.

My mother’s eyes flashed.

“So did you,” she spat. “You chose this one.”

And then she did something she hadn’t done in years.

She raised her hand.

For a moment, I thought she was going to hit me.

But instead, she jabbed her finger into my chest, hard enough to make me rock backward.

“You will not ruin this for me,” she hissed. “Do you understand? I fought for this life. I sacrificed for this life.”

I almost smiled at that.

Sacrificed?

My mother’s sacrifice was trading one husband for another and calling it survival.

She leaned closer, voice trembling with fury.

“You will go downstairs and ask Robert for fifty thousand dollars.”

The number hit me like ice water.

Fifty thousand.

For cigarettes, gambling, and debt collectors.

For my father’s addictions.

For Khloe’s blindness.

For a family that would drain me until I was nothing.

I exhaled slowly.

“No.”

My mother’s face twisted.

And before I could blink, her palm cracked across my cheek.

The sound was sharp.

Clean.

Humiliating.

My head snapped to the side.

My ear rang.

For a second, everything went bright and white, like lightning inside my skull.

I tasted iron.

And then—

A cold voice behind her.

“Who told you you could touch her?”

My mother froze.

Robert Henderson stood in the doorway.

He wore a dark sweater, sleeves rolled up, and his face was carved from stone.

My mother turned, eyes wide, immediately switching masks.

“Robert, I didn’t—she was being stubborn, she—”

Robert didn’t look at her.

His eyes stayed on me.

My cheek throbbed.

I kept my expression blank, because showing pain was something I had learned never to do in front of my mother.

Robert’s gaze flicked to the book on the floor—my mother had knocked it off when she hit me.

He stepped forward, picked it up, dusted it off carefully like it mattered.

Then he placed it back on my lap.

My mother’s breath hitched.

Robert’s voice was low and flat.

“You wanted fifty thousand?” he asked.

My mother blinked, surprised.

“Yes… yes, Robert. Just a loan. My ex-husband—”

“I’ll give it,” Robert said.

My mother’s face lit up instantly, relief blooming like a flower.

“Oh thank you, Robert, thank you—”

But Robert lifted a hand and cut her off.

He turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving me.

“But you will never strike her again.”

My mother’s smile faltered.

Robert’s voice hardened.

“You embarrass yourself when you act like that.”

My mother’s lips parted.

She wanted to argue.

But she couldn’t.

Not here.

Not in this house.

Not in front of him.

So she lowered her gaze, swallowing her humiliation like it was medicine.

“Yes, Robert.”

Robert paused.

Then he added, calmly, like he was discussing the weather:

“I want to see what your family does with the money. How far they’ll go when someone keeps bailing them out.”

My mother nodded rapidly, not even understanding.

All she heard was money.

But I heard something else.

A warning.

A test.

A trap.

Robert’s eyes lingered on my cheek one last time.

And then he turned and left.

As if nothing had happened.

As if he hadn’t just shifted the entire power dynamic of this house with one sentence.

My mother stared after him, stunned.

Then she rounded on me the second he was gone, her face contorted with rage.

“You think you’re special now?” she hissed. “You think you’ve got him wrapped around your finger?”

I touched my cheek gently.

It hurt.

But I didn’t cry.

I didn’t flinch.

I simply said, “Don’t hit me again.”

My mother’s eyes widened, because I had never said that before.

I had always been obedient.

Always silent.

Always soft.

But something inside me had changed.

Maybe it was the tumor pressing against my brain.

Maybe it was the fact that I had already died once.

Maybe it was the simple truth that I didn’t have enough time left to keep playing my family’s favorite game: Break Jade and blame her for bleeding.

My mother grabbed her purse and stormed out, heels clicking like gunshots down the hallway.

And as the door slammed downstairs, I sat there in the sunlight, hand on my cheek, and realized something that made me nauseous.

Robert Henderson—the man who had destroyed my sister in my first life—had just protected me.

Not gently.

Not kindly.

But effectively.

Which meant one thing.

This life wasn’t going to follow the same script.

And that terrified me almost as much as it gave me hope.

That night at dinner, my mother acted like nothing happened.

Her smile was sweet.

Her laughter was soft.

Her voice was honey.

She served Robert soup the way you would serve a king—careful, reverent, eager to please.

Robert ate slowly, quiet as always.

And for the first time, I noticed how little he actually consumed.

How often he cleared his throat.

How the muscles in his jaw tightened as if swallowing hurt.

He was sick.

He was hiding it.

Just like me.

My phone buzzed again in my pocket.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t even look.

But my mother did.

Her eyes sharpened like a hawk spotting prey.

She knew.

She always knew.

After dinner, she cornered me in the hallway.

“They called again,” she whispered harshly. “Khloe says your father is losing control. The debt collectors came to the house. They threatened him.”

I stared at her.

“And?”

Her eyes flashed.

“And they threatened Khloe.”

My stomach tightened.

Khloe.

Khloe who thought she was saving Dad.

Khloe who thought she was being noble.

Khloe who didn’t remember the future.

My mother grabbed my wrist.

“You’re going to talk to Robert again.”

I ripped my wrist free.

“No.”

My mother leaned in, teeth clenched.

“You don’t have a choice.”

And for the first time, I saw her fear clearly.

Not fear for my sister.

Not fear for my father.

Fear for herself.

Fear that her “perfect” life would get messy.

Fear that Robert would associate her with chaos.

Fear that she would lose her golden cage.

Her eyes burned into mine.

“You owe me,” she hissed.

I smiled faintly.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

My mother looked like she wanted to scream.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she whispered something that made my blood turn cold.

“If you don’t help them,” she said, voice low, “then Khloe will come here.”

I stared at her.

“Let her.”

My mother’s lips curled.

“You think Robert will tolerate that? A bruised, crying girl showing up at his door? A reminder that I used to be poor?”

She leaned closer.

“He will blame me.”

And there it was.

The real truth.

My mother didn’t want Khloe saved.

She wanted Khloe silent.

Invisible.

Somewhere else.

She turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway, heart pounding.

Because deep down, I knew this was inevitable.

Khloe was going to break.

And when she did…

She would come running to the only place she believed was safe.

This mansion.

This cold palace.

This waiting room of ghosts.

And when she arrived…

Everything would change.

The first time I heard Khloe’s voice in that house, it wasn’t through a phone.

It was through the front door.

A long, trembling scream split the quiet like a siren cutting through fog, and the Henderson mansion—usually so controlled it felt like a museum—flinched as if the walls had nerves.

My mother dropped the crystal bowl she was polishing.

It shattered across the marble floor in a thousand glittering pieces.

For a second she just stood there, frozen, her face draining of color, like the sound itself had slapped her.

Then she ran.

Not toward the door.

Toward the mirror.

She lifted her hair, checked her lipstick, straightened her blouse, and took a breath the way an actress inhales before stepping onstage.

I sat in the storage room, sunlight spilling across my legs, listening to chaos bloom below like a flower made of screams.

Robert Henderson disliked noise.

Which meant whatever was happening downstairs… was about to become a disaster.

I heard the door swing open.

Then the sobbing.

Then my mother’s voice, high and frantic, like a woman trying to control a fire with her bare hands.

“Oh my God… Khloe—baby—what happened to you?”

Khloe’s reply was not gentle.

It was raw.

Broken.

And loud enough to climb the staircase and wrap its fingers around my throat.

“Where is she?” Khloe cried. “WHERE IS JADE?”

My mother shushed her instantly.

“Lower your voice, sweetie. Robert is home. He—he doesn’t like—”

“I DON’T CARE!” Khloe screamed, and the sound crashed into every corner of the mansion. “HE SHOULD HEAR! HE SHOULD HEAR WHAT YOUR LIFE COST ME!”

My heart thudded once.

Hard.

Because even without seeing her, I knew.

Khloe had reached the point that destroys a person.

The point where pride collapses.

Where loyalty turns into bitterness.

Where love turns into accusations.

And in that moment, I understood something terrifying:

Khloe hadn’t come here to be saved.

Khloe had come here to make someone pay.

My mother hissed, pleading now.

“Khloe, please. Please don’t do this here.”

Khloe laughed—one jagged, ugly laugh that didn’t sound like laughter at all.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she said. “But I don’t have anywhere else to go, do I? Dad said if I didn’t get money, he’d throw me out. He said I was useless. He said I was—”

Her voice broke.

Then came a sharp inhale, like she was trying not to sob.

But it was too late.

I heard her cry.

Real crying.

The kind that comes from a place so deep it feels like your bones are grieving.

My fingers curled into the fabric of my blanket.

I could stay upstairs.

I could stay invisible.

I could let my mother handle it.

But then I heard something else.

Robert’s footsteps.

Slow.

Controlled.

Measured.

The steps of a man who did not rush for anyone.

The steps of a man who expected the world to adjust itself for him.

Then his voice—low and flat, the same tone he used for business calls and dinner requests.

“What is going on?”

Silence.

A thick, suffocating silence.

Then my mother, instantly sweet again, like she had flipped a switch.

“Nothing, Robert. It’s just… a family matter.”

Khloe snarled.

“Family matter? Is that what you call it? While she sits in her luxury room and I’m out there getting destroyed?”

My mother whispered fiercely.

“Khloe. Stop.”

But Robert didn’t whisper.

He just said, calmly, “Who is she?”

My mother froze.

She couldn’t lie.

Not in that house.

Not with Robert Henderson.

She swallowed, voice shaking.

“My… younger daughter. Khloe.”

A pause.

Then Robert said, “Bring her into the living room. If she’s going to scream, she can scream where the sound carries.”

My stomach twisted.

That wasn’t sympathy.

That was control.

Robert wasn’t concerned.

He was irritated.

I closed my eyes, but I could already picture it:

Khloe, standing under chandelier light, crying on expensive rugs, surrounded by polished surfaces that reflected how out of place she was.

My mother’s shame.

Robert’s cold stare.

And me—still upstairs, pretending I didn’t exist.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t let Khloe be the only one standing in the fire.

Even if she hated me.

Even if she blamed me.

Even if she came here to destroy me.

I pulled the blanket off my legs and stood up, ignoring the dizziness, ignoring the faint buzz behind my eyes.

I walked to the doorway.

Each step felt like a choice.

And with every step, I felt the old version of myself peeling away—obedient Jade, invisible Jade, quiet Jade.

By the time I reached the stairs, I wasn’t invisible anymore.

I was a storm walking into its own thunder.

When I stepped into the living room, everyone froze.

My mother looked like she’d seen a ghost.

Robert turned his head slightly, his gaze unreadable.

And Khloe—

Khloe looked up from the sofa.

She was smaller than I remembered.

Not because she had shrunk, but because life had taken chunks out of her.

Her eyes were swollen.
Her lips were split.
Her skin had bruises blooming like dark flowers.

She had wrapped herself in one of my mother’s expensive throws, but it didn’t hide what she’d been through.

The moment she saw me, her expression changed.

Hurt twisted into rage so fast it was almost frightening.

She stood, wobbling slightly, and pointed at me like I was the reason the sky rained.

“There she is,” Khloe said, voice shaking. “There’s my perfect sister.”

My mother rushed toward me.

“Jade, go upstairs,” she hissed urgently. “Now.”

But Robert lifted a hand.

“No.”

His voice was calm, but it carried weight, like a judge’s gavel.

“Let her stay.”

My mother’s face tightened.

She looked at Robert, then at me, then at Khloe.

This wasn’t what she wanted.

She wanted Khloe silent and hidden.

She wanted me obedient and unseen.

She wanted Robert unaware.

But the truth was already in the room now, and truth is loud.

Khloe took a shaky step forward.

“Are you happy?” she spat. “You got the warm room. The quiet life. The rich house. While I stayed with Dad and got…” Her voice cracked. “I got ruined.”

I stared at her, and something cold settled in my chest.

Not hatred.

Not anger.

Just clarity.

“Khloe,” I said quietly, “I never asked you to stay.”

Her eyes widened.

“You—what?”

“You chose,” I continued, my voice steady. “You grabbed Dad and told me to go. You made yourself the hero in that moment. I didn’t fight you because I was tired. I didn’t want another screaming match. I just wanted peace.”

Khloe’s face twisted.

“Peace?” she repeated like it was an insult. “You think you deserve peace?”

My mother stepped in, frantic, trying to control the narrative.

“Khloe, she didn’t mean—”

Khloe snapped her head toward my mother.

“Don’t speak,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare speak like you care now.”

Robert watched the exchange without expression.

But I saw it—just a flicker.

Interest.

Like he was watching a chessboard rearrange itself.

Khloe turned back to me, voice rising again.

“In my other life,” she said, words spilling out like blood, “you stayed with Dad and I went with Mom.”

My mother froze.

Robert’s head tilted slightly.

I felt the air change.

Khloe didn’t notice.

She was too far gone.

“You got everything,” Khloe continued, voice frantic. “You got Dad’s love. You got his money. You got his soft side. And I got trapped in this house with HIM.” She jabbed a finger toward Robert. “I got crushed.”

My mother stared at Khloe like she had just spoken demonic language.

“What are you talking about?” my mother whispered. “Other life? What kind of sick joke is this?”

Khloe laughed, hysterical now.

“It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. Jade remembers. Don’t you, Jade?” She leaned forward, eyes wild. “Tell her. Tell her you remember too.”

My mother looked at me.

Robert looked at me.

And suddenly, the weight of the room pressed down.

I could lie.

I could pretend Khloe was delusional.

I could protect my mother’s fragile fantasy.

But my cheek still ached where my mother had slapped me.

And my head still pounded with the slow ticking of my tumor.

And something inside me whispered:

You don’t have time to keep everyone comfortable.

So I exhaled.

Then I said softly, “Yes.”

My mother’s mouth fell open.

“No…”

Robert’s gaze sharpened.

Khloe’s eyes filled with tears again, but she didn’t look relieved.

She looked betrayed.

“You admit it,” Khloe whispered. “So you do remember.”

“Yes,” I said again. “I remember everything.”

My mother took a step back, shaking her head.

“This is insanity,” she stammered. “You’re both sick. You’re—”

“Mom,” I said calmly, “you already know I’m sick.”

Silence fell like snow.

My mother stared at me.

Robert’s gaze tightened.

Khloe froze.

I reached up and pulled off my cap.

I didn’t do it dramatically.

I did it matter-of-fact, like removing a mask.

My bald scalp caught the light. The few thin strands that remained looked like they were barely holding on.

My mother made a sound—half gasp, half sob.

Khloe’s rage flickered into shock.

Robert didn’t move.

But his fingers tightened slightly on the arm of the chair.

“Jade…” my mother whispered, voice breaking. “What… what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I replied quietly. “This is what’s happening to me.”

Khloe’s voice trembled.

“You’re… you’re dying too?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because saying it out loud made it real.

Made it final.

So instead, I looked at Khloe and said something that made her face go blank.

“You think Dad became a good man on his own?”

Khloe swallowed.

“He—he changed.”

“No,” I said softly. “He didn’t change because he wanted to. He changed because I paid his debts. I worked myself to exhaustion. I got sick. And in the end…” I paused. “I died.”

My mother let out a strangled sound.

Khloe’s eyes widened, horror blooming.

“What?” she whispered. “No. You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice steady but quiet. “In the other life, I died in front of him. That’s what forced him to stop. My life bought his guilt.”

Khloe stumbled backward like she’d been punched.

“No…” she whispered. “No, that’s not true.”

“It is,” I said gently. “Which means you didn’t ‘lose’ this life to me. You got exactly what you chose. You just didn’t realize the cost.”

Khloe collapsed onto the rug, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook.

My mother covered her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she did something I never expected from her.

She screamed.

It was a sharp, piercing sound, filled with terror, grief, and guilt all at once.

Then her knees buckled.

She fainted—right there in the living room—like her body couldn’t handle truth.

Servants rushed in. Someone called out for help.

Robert stood slowly, his face still blank, but his eyes dark.

He looked at me.

Not at my mother.

Not at Khloe.

At me.

And in that look, I saw it:

He already knew.

He had suspected.

He had seen the signs—the nosebleeds, the cold, the weakness.

He just hadn’t said it out loud.

Now he moved with sudden efficiency.

“Call an ambulance,” he ordered the staff. “Now.”

My mother was lifted carefully.

Khloe was shaking, still crying.

And I stood there, suddenly dizzy, the room tilting like a boat on water.

Robert stepped toward me.

His hand caught my elbow before I could fall.

For the first time, his voice softened—just slightly.

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

I stared at him, eyes burning.

“You hated her,” I whispered. “You hated Khloe. You—”

Robert’s gaze held mine.

“I hated noise,” he corrected calmly. “I hated weakness. I hated inconvenience.”

His fingers tightened on my arm.

“But I never wanted someone to die.”

Khloe looked up from the floor, eyes wet and furious.

“You killed me,” she whispered. “In my other life.”

Robert didn’t even flinch.

He just said, “I didn’t kill anyone.”

His eyes drifted to me again.

“But I suspect… the people who truly destroy you rarely think they’re doing it.”

And that sentence hit my chest like a slow, sharp blade.

Because it was true.

My father never thought he was abusive.

He thought he was “stressed.”

My mother never thought she was cruel.

She thought she was “raising me right.”

And Robert Henderson never thought he was heartless.

He thought he was “protecting his peace.”

The ambulance arrived.

Everything blurred.

Bright lights.
Cold air.
Doctors’ voices.

I barely remember the ride.

But I remember my mother waking up in the hospital, clutching my diagnosis report with shaking hands.

I remember her crying like she was being ripped open.

I remember her whispering over and over:

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you—”

And I remember thinking:

Because you wouldn’t have listened until it was too late.

Because you only loved me when I became a tragedy.

Because that’s how people like you work.

By the time they admitted me, the world felt far away.

My body was heavy.

My head throbbed.

And yet… strangely… my heart felt calm.

Because finally—

Finally—

They couldn’t pretend anymore.

They couldn’t rewrite me.

They couldn’t call me dramatic.

They couldn’t erase me.

I existed now.

Loud and undeniable.

Even if I was disappearing.