The first thing Amara noticed was how ridiculous the bed was.
It was obscene in its comfort: huge, pillowy, covered in pristine white linens, fairy lights strung along the slanted attic beams that made the whole room look like a curated mood board. She rolled over, immediately aware that something inside her skull was not pleased an ache that started as a dull throb and then insisted on being the boss of her morning.
She pushed herself up and blinked at the bedside table. An envelope sat primly there. Inside: a driver's license stamped Amara Swan, a stack of neat cards, some cash, and paperwork with official stamps. Her suitcase lay half-unpacked; half the wardrobe in the walk-in closet was already hung and coordinated like a stylist had done the honors in her absence.
Silk blouses. Tailored trousers. Leather boots that looked like they could walk straight off a runway. Fashion-week energy. She ran a hand over a hanger and let out a humorless laugh.
"Of course. Subtle, ROB. Very subtle."
Before she could plan her first sarcastic manifesto against cosmic bureaucrats, a spike of pain detonated behind her eyes sharper, angrier than the first. It hit like someone had shoved an ice pick into the back of her skull. She doubled over, everything tilting, and then her knees gave entirely. The luxury mattress swallowed her as she fell, soft and absurdly forgiving.
Memories ripped in: fluorescent hospital lights, the smell of antiseptic, muffled voices repeating a name..Amara...and a car, tires screaming. The download felt violent, a foreign life grafted into her head without a consent checkbox.
"Lovely," Amara hissed into the duvet. "Memory dump with express shipping. Thanks, ROB."
A tentative knock made her flinch.
"Amara? You awake?" The voice was low, cautious Charlie's.
"Yeah. Come in," she called, trying to make her voice sound like a functioning human and not someone who'd been force-fed other people's trauma.
Charlie ducked into the attic doorway holding a steaming mug. He looked tired in that way people who work with their hands sometimes do soft lines around his eyes, a hesitant smile. "Morning. Thought you might want this."
She took the offered mug. The coffee was strong enough to pull her out of fog. "Gifted barista, huh? Or are you trying to bribe me into not plotting your public humiliation?"
He gave an awkward little smile. "Please don't plot my humiliation. I've got enough trouble parking."
He shifted uncomfortably. "I...look. I know it's been rough. The hospital said..well. You don't have to rush anything. I took some leave to get things sorted. Bella'll be here in a month; I figured you could start school with her. Or wait longer if you need it."
Amara felt that precise prick of irritation that meant someone else's plan fit too perfectly into her new life. Of course. One month. ROB's calendar is tidy. She put on her politest smile. "I'll join with Bella. Less awkward than starting alone."
Relief softened his features. "That's good. It'll be easier." He cleared his throat. "I tried to make breakfast. Might not be great, but there's pancakes and eggs. I'll be at work..I'll be back this evening. You've got my number if you need anything."
Charlie lingered for a breath, obviously juggling a dozen things he didn't know how to say, then shuffled back downstairs, mug in hand.
Alone, Amara let out a short, exasperated laugh. "Kind, awkward, and probably thinks I'm actually fragile. Cute."
She pushed herself up and went to the walk-in closet. The half-unpacked suitcase had been tackled with alarming competence: more high-fashion pieces, carefully arranged outfits, shoes lined like tiny soldiers.
The bathroom, she noted with a small groan, was downstairs. One bathroom in the house for now it was only her and Charlie who used it. In a month, lip-biting, inexplicably alluring Bella would arrive and that ratio would change. She imagined the logistics: morning lines, stolen mirror time, passive-aggressive peak hours.
She brushed her teeth, showered,get dressed.She dressed in black jeans and a fitted top with minimal gold jewelry comfortable, polished, very not her usual.
When she finally checked the mirror, she nearly rolled her eyes into the back of her head. The girl in the glass was the same face she had the day before, just… upgraded. Hair that fell into soft, styled waves even when she tried to muss it. Skin that caught the light in the flattering, filter-like way of someone who'd had a professional contour applied by invisible hands.
And her body well, that had gotten an update too. She was taller than she remembered, but not too tall. Her figure had that impossible balance the fashion industry worshipped: a model's proportions, curves exactly where they should be neither too much nor too little. Long legs, slim waist, and shoulders that carried clothes like they were designed just for her.
It was like ROB had gone into Photoshop, hit "Perfect, but believable" and printed it in flesh.
She grabbed a brush and deliberately messed her hair. Five minutes later it had settled into glossy perfection again.
"Auto-upgrade face," she muttered. "Great. Because the problem was definitely that I didn't look like a magazine ad.Why would ROB give me this? He's not that generous. Which means yep. Definitely shady."
She thought of the contract, the paperwork, the envelope and the way ROB had never let mortals read the fine print. The thought made her chest tight. Shady was a polite word.
She headed to the kitchen, Charlie was gone, but the evidence of his attempt at domestic competence remained: a plate with slightly charred pancakes, eggs done a touch too firm, and a glass of orange juice. It looked less like a culinary triumph and more like an earnest apology on a plate.
She sat and ate, loud thoughts quieting for the first time that morning. "Burnt on the edges, sincere in spirit," she murmured. "I approve."
After breakfast, she wandered the house with the boredom of someone who'd already memorized every frame of a film adaptation. The living room, the stairwell, the worn couch this was the Twilight house, down to the faded rug and the way the light fell through the window. The familiarity should have been comforting. Instead it felt like set dressing for someone else's life.
Outside, parked like a trophy, was her new ride: a sleek black 2004 Audi A4. Practical, smooth lines, leather interior that smelled faintly of new car. Not a supercar, not ostentatious just efficient and unexpectedly classy.
Amara ran a hand along the hood, letting herself grin for a nanosecond. "Okay. I'll give you this win, ROB. At least I won't be clowning it in a farm truck."
That tiny pleasure vanished the moment she looked past the driveway into the dark trees that hemmed the Swan property. Forks wasn't a postcard. It was green, damp, and full of quiet that loved to hide teeth. Vampires and wolves didn't care how tasteful your wardrobe was, and some of them had a not-very-pleasant tendency to notice new blood. Some could even hear your thoughts.
She pressed her fingers into the steering wheel until the knuckles blanched. "Pretty cage," she said to the empty driveway. "Still a cage."
A soft, almost forgettable pulse at the base of her skull reminded her the contract was signed, the perks assigned. ROB was smug and far away, but present. She'd seen his handiwork and paid the price in headaches. For now, though, the attic smelled like coffee and warm bread and faintly of bleach from the hospital memories. For now, there was a quiet house, an awkward but gentle guardian, and one month until the canon that had already played itself out began to unfold.
Amara set the mug down, squared her shoulders, and decided sarcasm would be the first line of defense. If ROB had sided her with luxury and problems, she'd at least face them in decent boots.
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