Chapter 1 No.1

The sensation of falling was not like flying. It was heavy. Violent.

Wind screamed against her eardrums, tearing at her hair, but it couldn't drown out the sound of the fire roaring above them. The heat from the burning ducal manor still clung to her skin, a phantom scorch mark.

Andria looked down at her hand. She was gripping Blossom's wrist. Blossom's eyes were wide, reflecting the flames, but there was no fear in them anymore. Only a twisted sort of triumph.

Above them, on the crumbling balcony, Duke Cato Sears turned his back. He held Bianca in his arms, shielding her face from the smoke, walking away from the edge. Walking away from them.

Andria laughed. The sound was ripped from her throat by the wind, a jagged, ugly thing.

Then came the impact.

Darkness didn't fade in. It slammed shut like a heavy iron door.

Andria sat up.

Her lungs heaved, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke and burning flesh.

Her hands flew to her throat. Smooth skin. No blood. No crushed vertebrae.

She scrambled backward, her spine hitting the padded headboard with a dull thud. The pain was sharp, grounding. Real.

She looked around. Sunlight filtered through the cream-colored curtains. The silk sheets beneath her sweating palms were cool and pristine. This wasn't the cold, damp dungeon of the Sears estate. This was her bedroom. Her old bedroom in the Dawson manor.

She grabbed the iPhone from the nightstand. Her fingers were shaking so violently she almost dropped it. She tapped the screen. The light blinded her for a second.

June 14, 20xx.

The air left her lungs in a rush.

Three days. She was back three days before the engagement ball. Three days before her life was sold to a man who would eventually watch her die without blinking.

A laugh bubbled up in her chest, bordering on hysteria. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Tears pricked her eyes-not of sadness, but of sheer, overwhelming relief mixed with a hatred so potent it tasted like bile.

She threw off the covers and ran to the bathroom. She turned the faucet on full blast and splashed freezing water onto her face. Once. Twice.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink until her knuckles turned bone-white. She stared at the girl in the mirror. She looked young. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and haunted. But the weakness that had defined Andria Dawson for twenty years was gone.

In its place was something cold. Something sharp.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was soft, tentative.

"Andria? Are you awake?"

Andria's stomach lurched. She knew that voice. It was sweet, like syrup masking the taste of poison.

Blossom.

Andria closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her heart rate to slow down. She loosened her grip on the sink. When she opened her eyes again, the sharpness was gone, buried under a layer of practiced fear.

She walked to the door and opened it.

Blossom stood there. She was wearing a tweed Chanel suit, pink and immaculate. Her hair was perfectly coffered. She looked at Andria, and for a split second, her mask slipped.

Andria saw it. The confusion. The panic. The way Blossom's eyes darted over Andria's face, searching for something.

Blossom was checking to see if Andria was the same.

She remembered.

"You slept in," Blossom said, her voice tight. "Are you feeling okay?"

Andria leaned against the doorframe, letting her shoulders slump. "I had a nightmare," she whispered, rubbing her temple. "I feel terrible."

Blossom's shoulders relaxed. A small, cruel smile touched the corners of her lips. She thought Andria was still the pathetic little sister she could manipulate. She thought she was the only one who had come back.

"Poor thing," she cooed, reaching out to touch Andria's arm. Her skin felt cold against Andria's. "You need to rest. The Masquerade is in three days. You want to look your best for... everyone."

Blossom didn't say Cato's name. But Andria saw the greed flare in her eyes. In their past life, Blossom had rejected Cato because of the rumors about the war. She had pushed Andria into his arms. Now, she knew he would become a war hero. A Duke with power.

She wanted him.

"I know," Andria said, lowering her eyes. "I'm just so nervous."

"Don't be," she said, her confidence returning in full force. "I'll help you pick a dress. There's a green one that would look... perfect on you."

The green dress. The one with the long train. The one that made Andria trip by the pool.

Andria nodded, digging her fingernails into her palm to keep from smiling. "Thank you, Blossom. You're always so good to me."

"Hurry up and get dressed," Blossom said, turning away. "Daddy is waiting for breakfast."

Andria watched her walk down the hall. Her steps were brisk, purposeful. She was marching toward her future as a Duchess.

Go ahead, Andria thought, closing the door softly. Take him. Take the abuse. Take the bankruptcy. Take the hell that awaits in that house.

She dressed quickly and went downstairs.

The dining room was silent, save for the clinking of silverware against fine china. Her father, Garrick Dawson, sat at the head of the table, not hidden behind a newspaper, but openly scrutinizing a financial report. His gaze flickered up as Andria entered, cold and assessing, as if measuring her value before a crucial sale.

"Morning, Daddy," Andria said softly.

He grunted. "Don't be late again, Andria. It reflects poorly on the family."

She sat at the far end of the table. Her step-grandmother, the Dowager Countess, was already buttering a scone for Blossom.

"You look radiant today, Blossom," the old woman said, ignoring Andria completely.

"I feel radiant," Blossom said, beaming. "Tonight is the night everything changes. Duke Cato Sears will be there. It's going to be the most important night of my life." Her tone was one of absolute certainty, as if reading from a script only she possessed.

Andria picked up her knife and fork. She sliced into the fried egg on her plate. The yolk spilled out, yellow and runny.

Andria watched Blossom talk about Cato. She looked like a starving dog eyeing a piece of meat.

She took a bite of her breakfast. It tasted like victory.