Chapter 2

The first thing I did was call my firm. Not my boss, but the head of the legal department, a man named Arthur Vance-no relation to Chloe, thankfully. He was a shark, but he was our shark.

"Arthur, it's Ava Monroe. I'm emailing you my full report on the Olympia Skyscraper from three months ago, along with the developer's official rejection of my recommendations. I need you to log it with a timestamp and prepare a statement. Something is going to happen."

"Ava? What's going on? What's going to happen?"

"Just do it, Arthur. Trust me. It's a matter of extreme urgency and liability for the firm."

I hung up before he could ask more questions. The email was sent. The first piece was on the board. My alibi.

Next, I sent an anonymous tip to the city's emergency services and a major news outlet. I didn't name myself. I simply provided the technical details of the structural flaw, the exact location, and the risk of imminent collapse. I made it sound like a disgruntled construction worker. It might not be enough to force an evacuation, but it would create a record. A record that existed before Chloe's "vision."

I felt a surge of control, a feeling I hadn't had in what felt like a lifetime. I was moving the pieces, not just reacting to them.

But the universe, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor. That evening, as I watched the news with a knot in my stomach, the headline flashed across the screen. OLYMPIA SKYSCRAPER COLLAPSES. The horror was the same, the images of destruction just as sickening. My anonymous tip hadn't been enough to stop it.

I stayed awake all night, waiting. The sun rose on a grieving city. And just like before, at 9 a.m., Chloe Vance appeared on national television.

It was almost a perfect replay. The same studio, the same sympathetic host. The same trembling voice and tear-filled eyes.

"I had a premonition," she said, her voice catching. "I saw the building fall in a dream."

The host leaned forward. "It's incredible. You've been called a hero, Chloe. You sent an anonymous tip to emergency services and the press last night, hours before the collapse. You tried to save them."

My blood turned to ice.

What?

The host held up a printout. "We have a copy of the email here. It details the exact structural flaw that engineers are now saying caused the disaster. It's a miracle."

Chloe had outmaneuvered me. She must have had a way of tracking my digital footprints, or maybe she had an inside source at the news station. She had intercepted my anonymous tip and claimed it as her own. She hadn't just stolen my work; she had stolen my pre-emptive strike.

She looked into the camera, and her performance began. "I tried to tell someone directly, too. My stepsister, Ava. The architect. I told her what I saw, but..." she trailed off, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "She didn't believe me. She said... she said it was a good thing. That her firm could make more money from the repair contracts."

It was the same lie. But this time, it was sharper, more venomous, because now she had "proof" that she had tried to warn everyone. She wasn't just a psychic; she was a Cassandra, a tragic, ignored prophet.

The public reaction was instantaneous and even more ferocious than before. Chloe was a hero. I was a monster.

My phone rang. It was Liam. I steeled myself.

"Ava, I just saw the news," he said. His voice wasn't cold like last time. It was worse. It was full of pity and disappointment. "How could you? Chloe even tried to warn everyone anonymously. She's a saint. And you... you ignored her."

"Liam, she stole that tip. It was mine. I have proof I sent it."

"Proof? Ava, listen to yourself. You're saying you had a premonition now too? Just stop. It's over. Don't call me again."

The click of the phone was like a gunshot in the silent room. The betrayal felt just as deep, but this time it was laced with a terrifying sense of helplessness. I had tried to change things, but the script was playing out anyway.

The doorbell rang. I expected reporters. But when I looked through the peephole, I saw two men in plain clothes. Police.

I opened the door.

"Ms. Ava Monroe?" the older one said. His face was weathered, his eyes sharp. His name tag read Detective Miller.

"Yes?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about the Olympia Skyscraper collapse." His tone was neutral, professional. He wasn't accusing me, but he wasn't friendly either.

"Of course. Come in."

As they stepped inside, a mob of reporters, drawn by the police car, swarmed the lawn. Cameras flashed, and people started shouting my name, calling me a murderer.

Detective Miller glanced back at the crowd, then at me. "Looks like you're having a rough day."

"You have no idea," I said, my voice flat.

They sat on my couch, the one Liam had helped me pick out. The irony was bitter.

"Your stepsister, Chloe Vance, claims she warned you about the collapse," Miller began.

"She's lying."

"She also claims to have sent an anonymous tip," his partner added.

"She's lying about that, too. I sent that tip. She somehow took credit for it."

Miller raised an eyebrow. "Can you prove that?"

"I... I sent it from a public library computer, using a disposable email. To remain anonymous." My voice faltered. I had been so clever, so focused on not being traced, that I had created the perfect opening for Chloe to steal my actions. The evidence of my foresight was now the evidence of her heroism.

Miller just looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Ms. Monroe, your firm has released a statement. They confirm you flagged a potential issue months ago, but they're framing it as a standard preliminary report, one of many. They're distancing themselves. And your fiancé has also issued a public statement, ending your engagement and calling for a full investigation into your 'grotesque negligence'."

I felt the walls closing in. I had tried to get ahead of the story, but the story was a tidal wave, and I was just a swimmer in its path.

Chloe, meanwhile, was being paraded on every channel as the "Angel of Olympia." The families of the victims hailed her as a savior who had tried her best. They directed all their grief and rage toward me. The narrative was set in stone. Chloe was the hero, and I was the villain, even more so now because it looked like I was trying to steal her heroic act for myself.

"I need to think," I said to Miller, my mind racing. How did she do it? How was she always one step ahead? It wasn't psychic power. It was something else. Something calculated. There was a hole in her story, a piece of the puzzle I was missing.

Miller stood up, handing me his card. "If you think of anything, call me. In the meantime, I'd advise you not to leave town."

He didn't believe me. But he hadn't arrested me either. He was a cop, a man who dealt in facts. Chloe's story was all emotion and miracles. My story was a messy, unbelievable conspiracy. But somewhere in the mess, there had to be a fact he could hold onto.

I just had to find it.