Chapter 2

My people, the women of my hidden mountain hollow, carried this gift, or curse, of mending life.

It wasn' t a celebrated power, more a quiet burden, often leading to lives tinged with sorrow and exploitation.

My mother, she had a different gift, an intuition, a knowing. She could see the turn of a market, the success of a venture.

It drew him to her, my father.

He was a charmer, a grifter with big dreams. He used her gift, built his empire, then cast her and me aside like yesterday's news when we were no longer useful.

She died young, worn out and heartbroken.

After her death, I was alone, destitute.

The memory was a raw, gaping wound.

The attack. Brutal, senseless. Left for dead in a cold, dark alley, bleeding out.

Then, a face. Young, kind, desperate. Julian Thorne.

He' d found me, a boy himself, and with a frantic urgency, he' d pressed his own wrist to mine, a direct blood transfusion, a desperate act to keep life in me.

I remembered the warmth spreading, then darkness as he slumped beside me, weakened by his own sacrifice.

When I truly regained consciousness, Ethan was there.

He was leaning over me, concern etched on his face – a masterful performance.

"You're safe now," he'd said, his voice smooth. "I found you. I saved you."

I was young, traumatized, grateful. I believed him.

He let me believe it. That was the start of my debt.

A debt built on a lie.

A debt that had now cost me everything.

Ethan' s mansion was all gleaming surfaces and cold, modern art. It never felt like a home.

Now, it felt even less so.

Tiff Hayes, Ethan' s latest girlfriend, had moved in.

She was all blonde hair, fake tan, and a voice that could curdle milk. A social media influencer, always preening for an invisible audience, her phone an extension of her hand.

And she was pregnant. With Ethan' s children, she claimed, twins.

"Elara, darling," Tiff drawled, her eyes flicking over me with open disdain. "Be a dear and fetch me a green juice. And make sure it's organic. My babies need the best."

Ethan, lounging on a white leather sofa, smirked.

"Yeah, Elara. Hop to it. Tiff's eating for three now."

He' d told me I was to be Tiff' s personal servant. My place.

My people-pleasing habits, ingrained from years of trying to survive, made me nod, my voice a choked whisper. "Yes, Tiff."

The humiliation was a constant, bitter taste.

Then came the news about Ethan' s grandfather, the patriarch of the Caldwell oil empire.

He was dying.

The doctors gave him weeks, maybe days.

Ethan became a man possessed. His older, more cunning brother was circling, ready to snatch the lion's share of the inheritance.

Ethan cornered me in the kitchen, his eyes wild.

"You have to do it, Elara," he hissed, grabbing my arm. "You have to save him. My grandfather. It's my only chance."

I stared at him, my heart a cold stone in my chest. "Ethan, I... I can't. The power... it's gone."

All nine stars. Faded. Extinguished.

He didn't believe me. Or didn't want to.

"Don't lie to me!" he snarled. "You're just being selfish!"

Tiff sauntered in, a malicious glint in her eyes.

"Maybe she just needs a little... cleansing, Ethan, honey," Tiff suggested, her voice syrupy sweet. "To purify her gift. I saw it on a wellness blog. Blessed oil, some burning sage. It' ll make her all fresh and powerful again."

She held up a small, ornate bottle and a smudge stick, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

The "cleansing" was a mockery, a public degradation in front of the household staff Ethan had summoned.

Tiff anointed me with the sticky, cloying oil, chanting nonsensical words while wafting the acrid smoke around me.

Ethan watched, impatient, his focus solely on his dying grandfather and the fortune slipping through his fingers.

I stood there, stripped of dignity, an object for their amusement and desperate hope.

My insides felt hollowed out.