The smell of old paper and roasted coffee beans wrapped around me like a protective blanket.
I huddled in the back corner of Rita's bookshop, my sanctuary. Outside, the world was loud and demanding, but in here, with the soft jazz humming from the speakers and the steam rising from my cup, I could almost pretend my life wasn't falling apart.
Almost.
My thumb hovered over my phone screen. I knew I shouldn't do it. It was emotional self-harm, plain and simple. But curiosity is a poison, and I drank it willingly.
I tapped the notification.
"Madison Laurent and Billionaire Husband Celebrate Anniversary in Pure Elegance!"
The headline screamed wealth. I scrolled down, my stomach twisting into a tight, cold knot. The photos were high-gloss perfection. Madison looked radiant in a crimson silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. She was beaming, her arm looped through Julien's as if she were the anchor keeping him tethered to the earth.
The comments section was a chorus of worship.
"They are literally perfect." "I would kill to be her. Just for a day." "Julien Laurent is a god. Look at the way he looks at her."
I exhaled sharply, the air hissing through my teeth. Perfect. Lucky. True love. The words felt like paper cuts.
I was about to lock the screen when a new notification slid into view.
Madison Laurent posted a video.
My breath hitched. My finger tapped it before my brain could tell me to stop.
The video opened on a scene of excess. A grand banquet hall, golden chandeliers dripping with crystals, and a sea of guests in tuxedos and gowns.
And there, in the center of it all, were the King and Queen.
I zoomed in on Julien.
My heart did a traitorous flip. He was even more devastating on video. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles—defined cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, and light hazel eyes that seemed to burn with intelligence. His dark brown hair was styled in that messy, effortless way that probably took an hour to perfect.
The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the ink of the tattoo on his neck—a hint of danger beneath the billion-dollar suit. He looked powerful. Predatory.
"To my beautiful wife," Julien said, his deep voice vibrating through my phone's tiny speakers.
The crowd went silent.
"Happy anniversary, my love," he continued, turning to Madison. "And... an early birthday surprise."
Madison feigned shock, placing a manicured hand on her chest. "What surprise?"
Julien's lips—lips I had once dreamed of kissing—curved into a smirk. "I've prepared a little something. A token of my devotion."
He gestured to a curtain behind them, which fell away to reveal a sleek, towering metallic structure.
"A personal vault," Julien announced, his voice low and husky. "Containing ten billion dollars in assets. Just for you."
The crowd gasped. The sound was audible even through the video.
"To be opened on your birthday, my love," Julien whispered, leaning in close. "I want you to have the world."
Madison squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're unbelievable!"
She kissed him. It was a slow, possessive kiss that made the crowd cheer.
I dropped the phone onto the table.
Ten billion dollars.
The number echoed in my head, heavy and suffocating. Ten billion. That kind of money could erase every mistake I'd ever made. It could pay off Evan's debts. It could have saved...
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the thought away.
What if it had been me? The question haunted me, a ghost I couldn't exorcise. If fate had tipped just an inch to the left, would that be me in the red dress?
A shadow fell across my table.
"I figured you needed a refill."
I looked up to see Rita, her warm, wrinkled face crinkling into a smile. She placed a fresh, steaming mug in front of me.
"You know me too well," I whispered, wrapping my cold hands around the ceramic warmth.
Rita sat down opposite me, leaning her elbows on the worn wood. "Rough night?"
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You could say that."
Her eyes flicked to my phone, which was still glowing faintly. "You're doing it again, Penny. Torturing yourself with their lives."
"It's hard not to look," I admitted, my voice small.
"It's nothing," I lied, trying to straighten my posture. "Just... news."
Rita arched a brow. "Liar."
I slumped back, defeated. "She just... she has everything, Rita. And I'm just trying to survive."
"If you ever need anything," Rita said, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur, "you know where to find me. You're not alone, kid."
She patted my hand before heading back to the counter to help a customer.
The warmth of the coffee and the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy. The jazz music blurred into a lullaby. I rested my head on my arms, just for a second...
Buzz. Buzz.
I jolted awake.
My heart hammered against my ribs, disoriented. The shop was darker now; the afternoon sun had dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows across the bookshelves.
My phone was vibrating violently against the table.
I blinked the sleep from my eyes and looked at the screen.
Unknown Number.
A cold feeling settled in my gut. Instinct told me to let it ring. To let it go to voicemail.
But my hand moved on its own.
"Hello?" I answered, my voice raspy from sleep.
Silence.
Then, a sound that made my blood freeze. A ragged, terrified breath.
"Penelope..."
I went rigid.
I would know that voice anywhere.
"Madison?"
"Help me..." Her voice was a broken whimper, completely stripped of its usual arrogance. "Please... he's..."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my pulse roaring in my ears like a jet engine.
He's... He's what?
My mind raced. This had to be a prank. It was exactly the kind of sick game Madison would play—scare her poor sister just for a laugh over champagne with her rich friends.
But... the fear. The tremble in her voice. It hadn't sounded like acting. It sounded like primal terror.
I swallowed hard, my fingers shaking as I opened a tracking app. Madison was sloppy with her digital footprint; she liked people knowing where she was. I had synced our locations years ago when Mom got sick, and she had never bothered to remove me.
A red dot pulsed on the map.
California Dream Hotel.
It was only six blocks away.
I didn't think. I didn't analyze. I just moved.
"I have to go, Rita!" I shouted, grabbing my bag and sprinting out the door before she could even look up.
I hailed a cab, practically throwing myself into the backseat. "California Dream Hotel! Drive!"
As the car wove through traffic, a war raged inside me.
Why are you going? a voice in my head screamed. She hates you. She treats you like dirt.
It was true. Madison had been my tormentor since high school. She was the one who locked me in closets. She had watched me get bullied by her friends and laughed. She was the one who told the press she was an only child. She was the one who refused to get tested for bone marrow donation when Mom was dying, even though she was a perfect match. She let our mother die rather than endure a day of discomfort.
I hated her. God, I hated her.
But she was my sister. And that phone call... that was the sound of someone who knew they were about to die.
The cab screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. I threw a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and bolted.
The lobby was oppressive in its luxury—gold leaf, velvet, the scent of expensive lilies. I didn't stop to admire it. I ran straight to the front desk, slamming my hands on the marble counter.
The receptionist, a polished woman with perfect red lipstick, jumped.
"I need to know which room Madison Laurent is in!" I gasped, chest heaving.
The woman's shock was replaced instantly by a practiced, icy veneer. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We cannot disclose guest information due to privacy poli—"
"She called me!" I interrupted, leaning over the desk. "She's in danger! Something is happening to her right now!"
The receptionist's eyes widened. She looked around the lobby nervously. "Ma'am, please lower your voice. If you don't leave, I'll have to call security."
"Call them!" I screamed. "Call the police! Because if my sister is dead in one of your rooms, her husband—Julien Laurent—will burn this hotel to the ground and you along with it!"
The name Julien Laurent worked like magic. The color drained from the woman's face. She typed something furiously into her computer, her hands trembling.
"Room 210," she whispered, looking terrified. "Second floor."
I didn't wait for the elevator. I hit the stairs, taking them two at a time, my lungs burning.
Second floor.
The hallway was eerily quiet. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of my footsteps.
208... 209...
210.
The door was ajar.
A sliver of darkness peered out from the gap.
A chill violently shivered down my spine.
"Madison?" I called out, pushing the door open.
The room was a wreck. A vase was shattered near the entrance. A chair was overturned.
And then I saw her.
I froze, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.
Madison lay on the marble floor of the suite's entryway. Her blonde hair was fanned out in a halo around her head. She was wearing the red dress from the video.
But the red was spreading.
Dark, viscous blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the expensive rug. It tricked from her nose, her mouth.