Chapter 3

Chloe didn't handle the shock well.

The doctor said it was a panic attack, brought on by extreme stress. She spent the next two days in her room, attended by a private nurse, refusing to see anyone but my father.

It was a brilliant move, reinforcing her image as the fragile victim.

My punishment was swift and predictable.

"You will not leave this house," my father decreed, his voice like chipping stone. He stood in the doorway of my room, a sentinel of his own making. Mark, his arm now in a bright blue cast, stood behind him, looking smug.

"Your phone and laptop will be confiscated. You will have no contact with the outside world until I decide what to do with you."

He saw me as a liability, a loose cannon who had embarrassed him. He needed to keep me contained until he could clean up the mess.

"And you will stay away from Chloe," he added, his voice dropping to a low threat. "If you so much as look at her, I will have you committed to a psychiatric hospital. Do you understand me, Ava?"

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at the perfectly manicured garden. I didn't turn to look at him.

"Perfectly," I said.

He left, locking the door from the outside. The sound of the key turning in the lock was loud in the quiet room.

They thought a locked door could hold me.

How little they knew.

The body I inhabited, Ava's body, was soft from a life of privilege. But my own skills, honed in a past life they couldn't possibly imagine, were still sharp. I had been an infiltrator, a ghost. Locks were suggestions, not barriers.

I waited until the house was quiet, until the rhythm of the night watchman's patrol was predictable.

Then I went to work.

The bobby pin I had slipped from the bathroom vanity was all I needed. The old, expensive lock on my bedroom door was designed to keep people out, not in. It clicked open in under ten seconds.

I moved through the darkened hallways like a shadow, my bare feet making no sound on the polished floors.

My first stop was my father's study. His new laptop was on the desk, a top-of-the-line machine. It was password protected, of course. But people are creatures of habit. My father was no exception.

His password was "ChloeArchitect1". Pathetic.

I spent an hour in his study, a ghost in his machine. I didn't steal anything. Not yet. I just looked. I copied files, read emails, and examined financial records. I laid the groundwork, planting subtle backdoors and tracking software that he would never find. I was mapping out his empire, identifying its weaknesses.

My next stop was Chloe's room.

I stood outside her door, listening. I could hear the soft, even breathing of the nurse sleeping in a chair by the bed.

I didn't need a bobby pin for this one. The key was in the lock, left there by my father. He probably thought it was a sign of trust. It was just carelessness.

I turned it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until the latch disengaged with a barely audible click.

I slipped inside.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of a nightlight. Chloe was asleep in her massive canopy bed, looking like a sleeping princess. Her face was serene, wiped clean of its usual deceit. The nurse snored softly in her chair.

On the bedside table, next to a glass of water and a bottle of pills, was her phone.

I moved to the table, my steps measured and silent. I picked up the phone. It was the latest model, a gift from my father, no doubt.

I didn't need her password. My own software, which I had covertly installed on the house's Wi-Fi network from the study, was already at work, mirroring her device's contents to a secure cloud server I controlled.

As the data streamed, I watched her.

Even in sleep, she was plotting. She muttered a name in her dreams.

"Mark..."

A small, triumphant smile played on her lips.

So, the affair was still on. Even after I broke his wrist. Or perhaps, because of it. My violence had probably made him feel even more protective of his delicate, fragile Chloe.

They were planning something. My framing was just the first step. The ultimate goal was to have me declared mentally incompetent, stripping me of any potential claim to the family inheritance or the company.

I saw it all in the mirrored data from her phone. Texts with Mark, drafts of letters to lawyers, searches for psychiatric facilities.

My revenge would have to be more than just taking back what was mine.

It had to be absolute.

I placed the phone back on the table, exactly as I had found it.

As I turned to leave, Chloe stirred. Her eyes fluttered open. For a second, our gazes met in the dim light.

There was no fear in her eyes. Only a sleepy, smug superiority.

"Poor Ava," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep. "Locked away like a mad dog. It's a shame, really. You could have had so much."

She smiled that same triumphant smile from her dream.

"But you were never soft enough. Never good enough. Dad sees that now. Mark sees it. Soon, everyone will."

She closed her eyes, dismissing me, confident in her victory.

She thought I was trapped. Powerless.

I stood there in the darkness, a predator watching its prey, and I felt nothing but a cold, thrilling certainty.

I walked over to her bed.

She was still smiling in her sleep.

I leaned down close to her ear.

"You're right," I whispered. "I'm not soft."

Then, I drove my fist into the side of her mattress, just inches from her head. The frame of the bed shook violently with the impact.

Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and terror. The smugness was gone, replaced by the primal fear of a cornered animal.

She stared at me, speechless, as I straightened up and walked silently out of the room, locking the door behind me.

Let her wonder how I got in. Let her wonder what I would do next.

Fear was a much more effective tool than a locked door.