Chapter 3

I needed money to last the next two days. I couldn't touch the funds the Institute was providing until I officially started. So, I found a job at a small cafe, washing dishes for cash. It was humbling work, but it was honest.

My parents had always been tight with money when it came to me. Kelsey got a new car for her sixteenth birthday; I got a bus pass. Kelsey went on shopping sprees in Europe; I worked part-time jobs to buy my own school supplies. They called it "building character." I called it what it was: blatant favoritism.

The cafe was quiet. I was scrubbing a greasy pan when the bell above the door jingled. I didn't look up until a shadow fell over me.

"Annamarie?"

It was Don. He was holding a small, elaborately decorated cake. A single candle flickered on top.

"Happy belated birthday," he said, his voice soft. "It's coconut. Your favorite."

It was my favorite. Seven years ago. Now, the smell of coconut made me sick. It was the scent of the cheap soap they gave us in prison.

Our history was deep. We had grown up together. He was the only person who had ever made me feel seen, cherished. I had loved him so much that when he was struggling to launch his first company, I had secretly sold a valuable painting my grandmother had left me-the only thing of true value I owned-and anonymously invested the money into his venture. It was the seed money that made him a magnate. He never knew it was me. Kelsey, of course, had taken the credit, claiming she had convinced her "rich friends" to invest.

"You remembered," I said, my voice flat.

"Of course, I remembered. How could I forget?" He looked at the dirty dishwater, at my chapped hands. His face was a mask of pain. "You shouldn't be doing this."

He set the cake down on a clean patch of counter. I looked at it, at the perfect swirl of frosting, and felt a wave of nausea.

"I don't like coconut anymore," I said, turning back to the sink. It was a small rejection, but it felt significant.

His phone rang, shattering the tense silence. His expression changed as he answered it.

"What do you mean she's on the roof?" he hissed into the phone. "I'm on my way."

He hung up, his face pale. "It's Kelsey. She's at the mansion. She's threatening to jump."

He looked at me, his eyes pleading for understanding. But all I felt was a weary sense of déjà vu.

"You should go," I said.

He hesitated, torn. "Annamarie..."

"Go," I repeated, my voice firm.

He rushed out the door, leaving the pathetic little cake melting on the counter.

Kelsey, the drama queen. Another performance, another cry for attention, another way to pull him away from me and back to her. It was a game she had perfected over the years, and he fell for it every time.