Chapter 2 No.2

The next morning, Anastasia was on her knees, scrubbing the marble floor of the grand foyer.

The cold of the stone seeped through the thin fabric of her dress.

Eleanor Johnson walked by, her heels clicking a sharp, critical rhythm.

"You missed a spot," she said, not bothering to stop. "Do it again. I want to see my reflection."

Anastasia said nothing. She dipped the rag back into the bucket of cold water and scrubbed the same spot, over and over. Her back ached. Her hands were raw.

This was her life now. A ghost in her own home, stripped of her name, her identity. She was just the cleaner, the sinner, the woman who had to atone.

The other servants watched her with a detached cruelty. They would leave trays just out of her reach. They would "accidentally" spill things on the floors she had just cleaned.

They were following Courtland's silent orders. Isolate her. Humiliate her. Break her.

One afternoon, she was polishing the silver in the dining room when a maid approached her.

"Mrs. Johnson requires you in the drawing room."

The title, 'Mrs. Johnson,' was now reserved for Eleanor.

Anastasia put down the silver and followed the maid. Her heart began to beat a slow, heavy drum against her ribs. She knew this day would come.

Courtland was standing by the fireplace, staring into the empty hearth.

A woman was seated on the sofa.

She was beautiful, with wide, innocent eyes and a fragile air about her. She wore a soft, white dress. She looked like an angel.

It was Kinsley Alexander.

Alive.

Anastasia stopped in the doorway. The air left her lungs. The room tilted.

The woman on the sofa looked up. Her eyes met Anastasia's, and a flicker of triumphant malice crossed her face before it was replaced by a look of fear.

She shrank back against the cushions. "Courtland," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She's... she's looking at me."

Courtland turned. He moved to the sofa and put a protective arm around Kinsley's shoulders. He looked at Anastasia, and his face was a mask of cold fury.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "You're frightening her."

Anastasia couldn't speak. Her throat was tight. The world had dissolved into a roaring sound in her ears.

Kinsley was alive.

The past five years. The prison. The degradation. It was all based on a lie.

"I... I..." She managed to choke out.

"Get out," Courtland snapped. "Go back to your work. And don't you ever come near her again."

Kinsley buried her face in Courtland's chest, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "I'm scared, Courtland. After everything she did..."

"Shh," he soothed, stroking her hair. "I'm here. I won't let her hurt you. Never again."

Anastasia backed out of the room. Her body moved on its own. She felt numb, disconnected.

She returned to the dining room and picked up a silver fork. Her reflection in its curved surface was distorted, monstrous.

She saw it all so clearly. The perfect, diabolical plan. Kinsley fakes her death. Anastasia is blamed, her reputation ruined, her life destroyed. Then, when she is broken and powerless, Kinsley returns. The victim, miraculously resurrected.

And Courtland, blinded by his guilt and his devotion, would give Kinsley everything.

And he would make Anastasia pay for a crime that never even happened.

Later that evening, Kinsley found her in the kitchen.

She held out a cup of steaming liquid. "I made you some tea," she said, her voice sweet, dripping with false concern. "You look so tired."

Anastasia looked at the cup. In a flash of memory, she felt the familiar cramps, the slow, burning poison that had made her bleed for weeks before her arrest. The concoction Dr. Manning had later told her would make it difficult, if not impossible, for her to ever carry a child.

"No, thank you," Anastasia said, her voice even.

Kinsley's smile tightened. "You should drink it. Courtland wants you to be healthy." She pushed the cup into Anastasia's hands. "He worries about you."

The lie was so blatant, so cruel.

Anastasia looked into Kinsley's eyes. She saw the pure, unadulterated hatred there.

She lifted the cup.

And she drank it all.

The hot, bitter liquid scalded her throat.

She would endure this. She would endure anything.

She had to get to Aspen. Before they did.