Chapter 1

My eyes opened to the oppressive weight of silk and money. The air in the Beacon Hill mansion was thick with the scent of old wood, lemon polish, and a faint, cloying perfume I already hated. This body, the one they called "Hope," felt foreign, a cheap rental. My name is Gabrielle Johns, and I have been wandering since they hanged me in Salem for witchcraft. They were right about the witch part, just wrong about everything else.

A sharp cry echoed from the grand staircase.

Molly Chadwick, the girl who had stolen this life, was tumbling down the last few steps, a theatrical display of flailing limbs and feigned pain. She landed in a heap at the bottom, her face twisted in a perfect mask of terror, aimed directly at me.

"She pushed me!" Molly shrieked, her voice a high-pitched weapon.

Immediately, three figures rushed to her side. Owen Chadwick, a man whose face was a permanent sneer of disapproval, knelt beside her. His wife, Elyse, a woman so brittle she looked like she might shatter, hovered with a hand to her chest. And Andrew Scott, Molly' s fiancé, glared at me with pure, undiluted loathing.

"You animal," Andrew spat, his voice dripping with classist disgust. "You just got here and you' re already trying to hurt her."

"Look at her," Elyse whispered, loud enough for me to hear. "Straight from the trailer park. We should have left her there."

Owen stood up, his face flushed with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "You are a disgrace to this family, a stain we can't wash out."

They expected me to cower, to cry, to apologize. They expected the timid, frightened "Hope" they'd dragged out of the mountains.

But Hope was gone. Only Gabrielle remained.

I felt a cold fire ignite within me, a rage honed over centuries of injustice. It merged with the simmering resentment of the girl whose body I now wore-a girl bullied for her accent, her passion for engineering dismissed as a "dirty hobby," her very existence an embarrassment to these people.

I walked slowly towards them.

"Get away from her," Andrew warned, stepping in front of Molly.

I ignored him. My eyes were locked on Molly, who was now shrinking back, a flicker of genuine fear replacing her performance.

"You wanted a show?" I asked, my voice low and raspy with the Appalachian accent this body carried, an accent I now wielded like a blade.

Before anyone could react, my hand shot out and slapped Molly across the face. The sound was a clean, sharp crack that silenced the room. Her head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on her pale cheek.

Elyse gasped. Owen froze.

I grabbed a handful of Molly' s expensive silk blouse and hauled her to her feet. She was heavier than she looked, soft and unused to any real physical force.

"Let her go!" Owen roared, finally finding his voice.

I dragged her past them, up the grand staircase she had just pretended to fall down. She struggled, her designer heels scraping against the polished wood. I was stronger. Centuries of bodiless rage gave me a strength she couldn't comprehend.

We reached the third-floor landing, a balcony with ornate iron railings overlooking the dark, choppy waters of the Boston Harbor. The cold, salty air hit us.

"What are you doing? Are you insane?" Molly screamed, her voice cracking with real panic now.

I shoved her against the railing. She clung to it, her knuckles white.

"You want to play the victim?" I whispered in her ear. "Let's make it convincing."

Then, with a final, decisive push, I sent her over the edge.

Her scream was cut short by the splash as she hit the frigid water below.