Alexia POV:
I spent the morning in a kind of suspended animation, a quiet observer in my own life. I didn't try to warn anyone. I didn't feel the frantic need to find Katrina that would have consumed my sixteen-year-old self.
The past had taught me a bitter lesson: in our mother's eyes, any trouble involving Katrina was, by default, my fault. My protests were lies, my silence guilt.
So this time, I embraced the silence.
It was just after lunch when Agnes, our stern, grey-haired housekeeper, knocked on my door. Her expression was as starched as her uniform.
"Miss Alexia, your mother wishes to see you in the study. Immediately."
The summons had arrived. The trial was about to begin.
I followed her down the grand staircase, my steps measured and calm. The house felt cavernous, each footfall echoing in the heavy silence.
In the mahogany-paneled study, my mother, Sharon Mitchell, sat behind our father's enormous desk like a queen on a throne. Her face was a mask of cold fury.
She didn't waste time with greetings. The moment I stepped inside, she slapped a folded piece of paper onto the desk. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
"Where is Katrina? She left this note. It says you convinced her to go to Sunstone Ridge."
I glanced at the note. The loopy, overly embellished handwriting was unmistakably Katrina's. I had to give her credit; she was thorough in her treachery.
In my first life, I would have dissolved into a panicked torrent of denials. Now, I simply met my mother's glare.
"I've been in my room all day. I haven't been feeling well."
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in disbelief. "How convenient. Every time Katrina gets into trouble, you suddenly fall ill. Are you that jealous of your sister, Alexia?"
I lowered my gaze, letting my eyelashes shadow my cheeks. It was a gesture of submission she expected, one I had perfected over years of her interrogations.
"No, Mother." My voice was a soft, weary whisper.
My placid acceptance seemed to enrage her more than any argument would have. "You will stay in your room until Katrina returns. You will not have visitors, and you will not leave for any reason. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother."
The punishment was exactly what I wanted. A prison that was also my sanctuary. A sentence that was also my alibi.
I turned and walked out of the study, feeling her hot, angry glare on my back.
Back in my room, the adrenaline that had sustained me faded, replaced by a profound exhaustion. The mental strain of the day was taking its toll.
That evening, Lena, my personal maid and the only person in this house who showed me any kindness, brought me a simple tray of soup and bread. Her young face was etched with worry.
"Miss, it's Master Aaron," she whispered, setting the tray down. "He has a fever. A very high one."
My hand, reaching for the spoon, paused. Aaron. My ten-year-old brother. In another life, another one of my tormentors.
"The doctor will take care of him," I said, my voice cool.
Lena hesitated, wringing her hands. "But... he keeps crying for Miss Katrina. He won't let anyone else near him."
I felt nothing. A cold, empty void where sympathy should have been. I would not be drawn into their drama.
But as night fell, Aaron's cries turned into pained, delirious moans that seeped through the walls. Around midnight, there was a frantic knock on my door. It was Martha, Aaron's nanny, her face pale with panic.
"He's talking nonsense, Miss Alexia. The doctor gave him medicine, but he spits it out. He's burning up."
She was practically pleading. "Please, could you just come see him? Maybe seeing family will calm him down."
My first instinct was to refuse. To lock the door and let them handle the mess they had created. But Martha's eyes were filled with genuine terror, and she looked as if she was about to fall to her knees. With a sigh pulled from the depths of my soul, I got up.
Aaron's room was hot and smelled of sickness. He was thrashing in his bed, his face flushed a painful, deep red, his lips cracked and dry. He flung his arms about wildly, his voice a hoarse rasp.
"Katrina... where... Katrina..."
I walked to his bedside and dipped a washcloth in the basin of cool water. Wringing it out, I gently laid it across his forehead.
The sudden coolness seemed to soothe him. He stilled, his frantic movements ceasing. His eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused and glassy. He blindly reached out, his small, hot hand closing around my wrist.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he brought my hand to his burning cheek, nuzzling against my skin with a pathetic, dependent whimper.
"Sister..." he mumbled, the word slurred and barely audible.
It wasn't Katrina's name. It was the title he hadn't used for me in years — not without a sneer attached.
And in that moment, hearing that single, untainted word, a crack appeared in the glacier around my heart. A tiny, unfamiliar warmth seeped through, a phantom feeling I could only identify as love.
