Chapter 1

The sound of the front door swinging open was the exact same sound that haunted my nightmares.

I was in my small studio, the smell of turpentine and oil paint a familiar comfort, but the sound from downstairs shattered it instantly. It was a premonition, a ghost of a memory I had already lived through.

My feet moved before my brain could catch up, carrying me out of the room and to the top of the stairs.

And there she was.

My younger sister, Emily. She stood in the entryway, a bright, careless smile on her face, as if she' d just come back from a weekend trip.

But in her arms, wrapped in a cheap pink blanket, was a baby.

"Surprise!" Emily announced, her voice echoing in the quiet house. "Meet Leo. He' s the newest addition to the Miller family legacy."

My blood ran cold. It was happening again. The exact same words, the same casual tone, the same oblivious expression. In my previous life, this moment was the beginning of the end. It was the moment my life derailed, caught in the train wreck of my sister' s irresponsibility. It was the moment that led directly to my death.

My mother and father rushed out from the living room, their faces a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Emily? What is this? Whose baby is that?" my mother asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Mine, of course," Emily said, shifting the baby in her arms as if he were a new purse. She walked over and plopped him into my mother' s arms without a second thought. "I' m calling it 'going solo.' You know, ditch the dad, keep the kid. It' s the ultimate main character move. I' m living my best life, unapologetically."

My father stared, speechless. My mother, after a moment of shock, started cooing at the baby, her face softening. The anger I expected to see was already melting away, replaced by a doting grandmother' s affection.

This was how it started.

"I' m tired from the trip," Emily declared, stretching her arms above her head. "I' m just gonna go upstairs and crash. You guys can handle him, right? I' m going to be in my confinement period, so I' ll need lots of rest and good food."

She breezed past me on the stairs, not even giving me a second glance. The scent of her cheap perfume mixed with the faint, sour smell of baby formula.

I looked down at my parents, who were now completely captivated by the infant. Leo, they called him. An innocent life brought into this chaos by a mother who saw him as nothing more than an accessory.

"Mom, Dad," I said, my voice low and steady. I had to try a different approach this time. "You can' t just let her do this."

My mother looked up, her brow furrowed. "Sarah, what are you talking about? This is your nephew. He' s family."

"He' s a responsibility Emily is dumping on you," I countered, walking down the stairs. "What are people going to say? What will the neighbors think? A college student comes home with a baby and no father, and just leaves him here?"

I knew hitting their obsession with appearances was the only way to get through to them.

"She' s a young girl, she was scared," my father said, finally finding his voice. He looked tired already. "She needs our support right now, not our judgment."

"Support?" I nearly laughed. "You call this support? This is enabling. She' s using you, just like she always has. She thinks she' s the main character in a movie, and we' re all just supporting actors meant to clean up her messes."

"Sarah Miller, that is enough!" my mother snapped, her voice sharp. "That is your sister you' re talking about. Emily is sensitive. She' s been through a lot. We will not abandon her, and we will not abandon this child. He' s a Miller now. End of discussion."

She turned her back on me, rocking the baby gently. My father gave me a pleading look, a look that said, Just drop it, for the sake of peace.

I stared at them, at the scene that was a perfect replica of my past. In that life, I argued. I yelled. I fought for them to see reason, and in the end, I took on the burden myself. I sacrificed my art, my money, my future, all to raise Leo while Emily partied. And when I finally pushed her too far, demanding she take responsibility, she picked up a heavy sculpture from my studio-one of my own creations-and brought it down on my head.

The memory of the blinding pain, the darkness closing in, was still fresh.

This time would be different. I wouldn't be the martyr.

I looked at my deluded parents, at the innocent baby, and at the closed door to Emily' s room.

This time, she would not get away with it. And I would make sure of it.