Angela Kane POV:
The shriek of the heart monitor softened into the elegant strains of a string quartet.
Sterile antiseptic gave way to champagne and expensive perfume and the heady sweetness of fresh roses. The cold, starched hospital sheet against my skin became the heavy silk of an evening gown.
I gasped. My eyes flew open.
Above me hung a crystal chandelier, its light fracturing into a thousand tiny rainbows. The room was filled with people in tuxedos and glittering gowns, their chatter a low, pleasant hum. My heart slammed against my ribs. I looked down at my hands—smooth, unblemished, the skin glowing with health. Not the skeletal, bruised claws of a dying woman.
I scrambled to my feet, stumbling toward an ornate mirror on the wall. The girl staring back at me was twenty-two years old. Flushed cheeks. Wide, terrified eyes. Beautiful. Healthy. Me.
A man's voice boomed through the sound system, cutting through my panic. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us to celebrate Miss Angela Kane's twenty-second birthday!"
The words hit like a key turning in a lock I didn't know was there. This party. This was the night it all began.
My head snapped up. My gaze swept across the crowded ballroom until I found them. Brett and Juliana, standing near the bar, laughing with a group of associates from the Kane organization. They looked vibrant. Untouchable. Alive.
The sight of their faces—so full of lies, so certain of their victory—sent a wave of pure, undiluted hatred surging through me. I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep from screaming. The sharp sting of pain was an anchor.
Last time, on this night, I'd been a fool. Giddy with anticipation, waiting for the proposal I was so sure was coming. Last time, Brett had used this stage to begin the slow, public process of destroying me.
Guests kept approaching. "Happy birthday, Angela." I smiled. I nodded. I thanked them. A perfect porcelain doll, my movements automatic while my mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible.
"Sister, you look absolutely breathtaking." Juliana's voice was sweet poison in my ear. She looped her arm through mine, the touch making my skin crawl. "Look—Brett can't take his eyes off you."
I pulled my arm away. Not violently, but with a cold, deliberate finality. I looked at her, my expression utterly blank. The iciness in my eyes made her falter. Her practiced smile flickered.
Brett appeared at her side, his own smile radiating an easy, proprietary charm. He reached for my waist, a gesture of ownership I had once craved. "Darling, what are you daydreaming about?" His tone was light, but underneath ran the familiar current of command.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I took a half-step back—small, almost imperceptible—and his hand fell on empty air. A reflex, born from the memory of coldness. Of his touch becoming a violation.
Brett's smile tightened. His eyes—a brilliant, cold blue—narrowed. He wasn't used to being denied.
The subtle shift in our dynamic didn't go unnoticed. I saw curious glances. Heard the whispers beginning to ripple through the nearby guests.
The orchestra finished its piece, and the host's voice filled the room again. "And now, a special presentation from Mr. Brett Callahan."
My blood ran cold.
I watched him reach into his jacket. He pulled out a small, dark blue velvet box. *That* box. The one I remembered with perfect, soul-crushing clarity.
The crowd buzzed with excitement. Juliana's eyes glittered with triumph, though she managed to arrange her features into a mask of shy surprise. I felt nothing. No hope. No fear. No heartbreak. I was a ghost watching a play whose tragic ending I already knew.
Brett held the box in his hand. He took a step.
But he didn't walk toward me.
He walked—step by deliberate step, through a sea of confused faces—directly toward Juliana.
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