Kandy lunged forward. Her manicured fingers dug into Janet's wrist as she snatched the phone away, hurling it onto the tangled bedsheets.
"You think you can dismiss me?" Kandy hissed, pacing the narrow space between the bed and the wardrobe like a caged peacock. "Jax just bought a penthouse in Tribeca. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Private elevator."
Janet watched her. She didn't look at the phone. She looked at Kandy's hands. There was a slight, undeniable tremor in Kandy's fingers. Hyperarousal. Her nervous system was red-lining, desperately trying to convince herself of a lie.
"And we're going to have the perfect family," Kandy bragged, her voice pitching higher. "Four kids. All Ivy League legacies. Jax's bloodline is superior."
Janet's mind instantly accessed the encrypted medical files she had memorized in her past life. The dark web IVF records. Jax Adler didn't have a bloodline. He was sterile. Those four blonde, blue-eyed children were purchased from a high-end donor catalog.
"I am going to be the absolute matriarch of the Adler empire," Kandy declared, stopping to strike a pose, her chin lifted high.
Janet turned her back on her. She walked over to the cheap vanity, picked up a black hair tie, and gathered her long hair into a tight, practical ponytail. The movement was dismissive. It was a physical erasure of Kandy's presence.
Kandy let out a frustrated shriek. She slapped her palm against the vanity mirror. The glass rattled in its cheap wooden frame.
Janet paused. She met Kandy's furious gaze through the reflection in the mirror.
"Do you know what chromosome microdeletion is?" Janet asked. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.
Kandy blinked. The medical term hit her like a foreign language. She quickly recovered, letting out a harsh scoff.
"Save your community college nursing vocabulary for the cripple," Kandy sneered.
Janet narrowed her eyes, her gaze dropping to Kandy's trembling hands and the erratic, shallow rise of her chest. Her reborn intuition was razor-sharp, picking apart the micro-expressions of Kandy's face. She didn't need any special powers to see the raw, deep-seated anxiety rolling off her cousin in waves. It was written in the tense line of her jaw and the frantic darting of her eyes.
Emboldened by Janet's silence, Kandy stepped closer. She thrust her index finger out, the sharp acrylic nail poking hard into Janet's shoulder.
"Gaylord is rotting in a military hospital," Kandy spat, the words dripping with venom. "His organs are literally liquefying. He's a corpse."
A strange, fierce heat flared in Janet's chest. It was an instinctual, violent urge to protect the man who was destined to be her ally.
Janet's right hand shot out. It was a blur of motion.
Her fingers clamped down on Kandy's wrist, her thumb pressing precisely into the radial nerve pulse point.
Kandy let out a piercing scream. Her knees buckled as her entire arm went instantly, terrifyingly numb.
Janet squeezed, just a fraction of an inch harder.
"Never point that filthy finger at me again," Janet whispered, her voice dropping to a deadly register.
She released the wrist. Kandy stumbled back, clutching her deadened arm against her chest. Tears of genuine physical pain welled in her eyes, but her face quickly twisted into a mask of pure, ugly hatred.
"I saw the news in the future!" Kandy cried out, her voice trembling. "I saw Gaylord's autopsy report! It was horrific!"
Janet felt a cold smile pull at the corner of her mouth. She knew exactly which report Kandy was talking about. The fake autopsy fabricated by Wall Street short-sellers to crash the Bradford stock.
Janet took a slow step toward Kandy.
"Can you tell the difference between cellular necrosis and high-dimensional physiological hibernation?" Janet asked, her tone mocking.
Kandy backed up until her spine hit the wall. "You're delusional. A pathetic little nurse can't raise the dead."
Janet was done wasting oxygen on her. She turned away, pulled open the squeaky closet door, and dragged out a faded canvas duffel bag. She started tossing her few plain shirts inside.
Kandy felt the sting of being ignored again. It was worse than the physical pain. She kicked out with her heavy Chanel heel, striking the side of the duffel bag.
The bag tipped over. Three massive, hardcover medical textbooks spilled out onto the floor. Advanced Neurosurgery. Cellular Pathology.
The air in the room froze.
Janet stared down at the books. Her eyes went completely dead. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Kandy swallowed hard, intimidated by the sudden shift, but she forced a laugh. "Taking your little picture books to the mansion? You're going to be the laughingstock of New York society."
Janet crouched down. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She picked up the neurosurgery textbook, gently wiping a speck of dust from the cover.
She stood up, holding the heavy book against her side. She looked Kandy dead in the eye.
"Very soon, Kandy," Janet said, her voice carrying the absolute weight of a prophecy, "those high-society elites you worship will be kneeling on the pavement outside my door, begging me to save their miserable lives."
Kandy stared at her for a second. Then, she threw her head back and let out a hysterical, grating laugh. She clutched her stomach, acting as if it was the funniest joke she had ever heard.
