Chapter 1 1

The Washington, D.C. summer was brutal. Late June and the heat was already a weapon, radiating off the asphalt in shimmering waves that made the streets look empty and underwater.

Ainsley dragged her beat-up suitcase down the hallway.

She didn't need to see the living room to hear Katharina's voice, pitched in that perfect mix of curiosity and petty malice.

"Mom? Dad? Are Ainsley's *real* parents *actually* coming to get her?"

Preston's voice was sharp, distracted. "Why do you care about that? Is the piece for the recital ready? Grandma's friend is coming over-Debi Wong. She's a guest professor at Juilliard. One of the most respected critics in the country. You perform well, and with your grandmother's recommendation, your place is secure."

"I've been practicing, Dad."

A pause. Then, with a theatrical sigh that was clearly meant to carry, Katharina continued. "Dad... what do you think they'll even look like? Her real parents?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Her voice dropped into a conspiratorial, mocking whisper that still managed to fill the room. "They said they were coming two days ago and they're just getting here *now*. You think they bought train tickets? Like, spent two days on a slow train from some backwoods mountain village just to pick her up?"

Ainsley's footsteps faltered. Just for a second. A cold, sharp smile touched her lips. It held no humor.

Three months ago, she'd walked in on her boyfriend, Kade Miller, getting a little too close to her dear *sister* Katharina. When she called them out, the truth that came out was far uglier than a simple breakup.

She wasn't a Thomas. She never had been. She was adopted. A contingency plan.

Katharina had been born with a rare blood disorder. The Thomases had money, but money couldn't manufacture the specific, rare blood type their precious daughter needed. So they'd found a solution: adopt a child with the right blood. A living, breathing blood bank.

Ainsley.

Her whole life, she'd been groomed to be a good sister. Hand-me-down clothes. Hand-me-down opportunities. Every award, every bit of praise, funneled towards Katharina. She'd been a silent, willing participant, believing in family.

Kade and Katharina's betrayal had just been the trigger. The explosion unearthed the foundation.

They'd only told her the truth now because Katharina was stable. She didn't need monthly transfusions anymore. Ainsley's utility was used up. And after she'd embarrassed Katharina at her birthday party by making a scene about the cheating, the family had decided it was time to dispose of the asset.

Preston cleared his throat, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Katharina, enough."

Katharina pouted, her voice dropping into a mock-whisper that was still perfectly audible. "It's a valid question. If they could afford plane tickets, why the delay? They're probably *broke*."

"Katharina." Preston's voice was a low warning as he caught sight of Ainsley descending the stairs.

The first thing anyone noticed was the face. Striking. Unapologetic. She wore a simple pale blue t-shirt under an unbuttoned red and white striped shirt, the tails tied carelessly at her waist above denim shorts that showed off long, pale legs.

The Thomases were all fair-skinned. Ainsley was paler. It made her eyes, dark and depthless, seem even more stark. Preston had always felt a flicker of unease looking at her, a sense of distance he'd never been able to name.

*Well,* he thought, looking away. *Now I know why.*

"Ainsley." His voice was gruff, but less harsh than the others'. After all, they'd raised her for over a decade. "You packed?"

She reached the bottom of the stairs, the single, light bag a stark contrast to the piles of luggage that usually accompanied their family trips. "Yeah."

Katharina finally saw her. The malicious curiosity vanished, replaced by a mask of wide-eyed, innocent concern. "Oh! Ainsley. I didn't see you there."

Ainsley didn't even grunt in acknowledgment. She simply walked past her.

Katharina's eyes flashed. She bit her lip, lowered her gaze, and let her shoulders slump, the picture of wounded gentleness. Her pale, fragile face looked even more bloodless, a delicate flower in a harsh wind.

Eleanor's cane slammed against the floor. Her face was granite. "Katharina was speaking to you!"