Chapter 1

"Sarah, honey, are you awake?"

My mother Linda's voice, too sweet, too careful, cut through the morning quiet.

I opened my eyes. The familiar floral wallpaper of my childhood bedroom swam into view. Sunlight, weak and grey, filtered through the blinds.

It was the day.

The day they would try to ship me off to that "special art program" in another state. A polite exile.

"Richard, she's up," Linda called.

My father appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of forced concern. "Sarah, your mother and I, we think this program will be wonderful for you. A fresh start."

Their words were a script I knew by heart.

In my past life, I had fought them. I had screamed, cried, begged to stay. Begged not to be pushed away from Ethan, even though he was already lost to Jessica.

This time, I sat up. "Okay."

Linda blinked. "Okay?"

Richard frowned. "Just... okay?"

"Yes," I said, my voice calm. "I'll go. It sounds like a good opportunity."

Their surprise was a small, bitter satisfaction. They exchanged a look. This wasn't part of their plan, my easy agreement.

Then it hit me, a full-body shock, cold and sharp.

I *remembered*.

I remembered dying. The screech of tires, the shattering glass, the red bloom on the wedding dress in the shop window as my vision faded. Ethan and Jessica's wedding.

I was back. Reborn.

This was the morning of the day they announced their engagement, the day they tried to get me out of the way.

I had a second chance.

A chance to escape.

My existence had always been a transaction.

I was Sarah Miller, conceived via IVF, my genes picked apart before I was even a cluster of cells. All to be a perfect bone marrow match for Jessica, my older sister, who was dying from aplastic anemia.

I saved her life.

And in return, I was the family's shadow, the spare part, the constant reminder of Jessica's brush with death.

They loved Jessica, the survivor, the golden child.

I was just... there. Necessary, once. Now, an inconvenience.

Years later, after Jessica was healthy and blooming, Ethan Ashford crashed into our periphery.

Heir to an old-money New England dynasty. A polo accident had scrambled his brain, left him with amnesia, hidden away on a remote family estate to recover.

I was working a temp job there, an assistant to his private nurse.

He couldn't remember faces, but he remembered my voice.

I read Walt Whitman to him, "Leaves of Grass." I hummed old folk songs.

He called me "Wren." I never told him my real name. It was safer that way, a secret world just for us.

We connected, a quiet, deep understanding. He gave me a small, antique silver compass charm. "It will always lead you to good things, Wren," he'd said, his voice raspy. "When I'm better, we'll find each other properly."

A promise.

But as his body healed, his memory of "Wren" remained a fragile whisper.

Jessica, my sister, saw her chance.

Our parents helped. They always helped Jessica.

They manufactured a family emergency, sent me away.

Jessica, armed with details stolen from my journal, presented herself to Ethan. She became "Wren."

She was charming, beautiful, everything their families wanted.

For years, I tried to tell Ethan.

He, cocooned by Jessica's lies and our parents' slander – they painted me as jealous, unstable – turned on me with a cruelty that broke me piece by piece.

"You're delusional, Sarah," he'd sneered, Jessica clinging to his arm, her eyes full of false pity.

The final time, the day before their wedding, he publicly denounced me.

That night, the brakes on my car failed.

Jessica's desperate, final act to silence me. I knew it, even as the world went black.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text. From Ethan.

*Ashford Penthouse. Now. We need to talk.*

The same cold summons as before. The prelude to my humiliation.

My parents would be thrilled I was going. It fit their narrative of me chasing him.

This time, I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't beg.

I dressed carefully. A plain dark dress. No makeup.

My hand closed around the small, cool shape of the silver compass charm in my pocket. Wren's compass. My compass.

The Ashford penthouse buzzed with pre-party chaos. Caterers, florists, staff rushing everywhere.

Ethan and Jessica stood near the vast windows overlooking the city. Jessica, radiant in a white dress, leaned into him.

They turned as I approached.

Ethan's face was cold, impatient. "Sarah. We need to be clear."

He was about to launch into the same wounding speech, the one that had flayed me alive last time.

I spoke first, my voice quiet but firm. "Ethan, Jessica. I understand. I'm not wanted here. I wish you both happiness." I paused. "My parents want me to leave town. I'll be going."

Ethan looked thrown. This wasn't the desperate, hysterical Sarah he was expecting.

Jessica's smile tightened.

As I turned to leave, a heavy catering cart, laden with champagne flutes, suddenly rolled free.

It careened towards us.

Ethan's reaction was instant. He yanked Jessica behind him, shielding her.

The cart slammed into me.

Not hard enough to knock me down, but enough to send me stumbling. My hand shot out, landing on a table edge where a glass had just been set down.

It shattered.

Sharp pain, then warmth, as blood welled from a deep gash in my palm.

"Oh my god, Jessie, are you alright?" Ethan fussed, ignoring me completely.

Jessica, ever the actress, let out a little yelp. "My ankle! I think I twisted it, dodging that thing!"

At the urgent care, it was a repeat performance.

My parents arrived, their faces etched with worry – for Jessica.

"Jessica, darling, are you okay?" Linda cooed, rushing to her side.

Richard hovered. "That clumsy staff, we'll have words!"

Ethan was all solicitous concern for Jessica's "sprained" ankle.

I sat alone, my hand wrapped in a blood-soaked paper towel, a throbbing ache spreading up my arm.

A nurse, glancing at my bleeding hand and then at the family drama, muttered to a colleague, "Some people."

The doctor finally stitched my palm, his expression grim as he noted the family's blatant neglect.

The cut was deep. It would scar.

Another scar, courtesy of the Millers and Ashfords.

But this time, as I stared at the neat row of black stitches, I felt a strange calm.

This was the price of admission to my new life.

Let them have their drama.

I was already gone.

I closed my eyes, the memory of "Wren" and her compass a small, steady point of light in the darkness.

I wouldn't fight for Ethan. Not anymore.

He wasn't worth it.