Chapter 1

When my mother jumped from the third floor, I was standing behind the rose bushes in the garden.

My six-year-old fingers dug deep into the mud. I didn’t cry.

My mother’s blood stained the white dress she loved so much. It turned a deep, sickening crimson.

Fourteen years later, I stood by the window of that same bedroom. I watched my grandfather, Silas Sterling, collapse from a stroke.

My father, Arthur Sterling, knelt before me, trembling.

I leaned down and gently lifted his chin with my finger.

“Dad, tell me,” I whispered. “Is Mom’s blood redder than these roses?”

1 I remembered that white dress for fourteen years.

It was pure cotton with delicate pleats at the neckline. The cuffs had hidden buttons that my mother had sewn herself.

She stood on the windowsill of the third floor. The wind blew from the south, tossing her skirt into the air.

She looked like a pale flower blooming against a gray, suffocating sky.

At six years old, I didn’t understand why she cried for so many days. I didn’t understand why she stayed in the bathroom with the water running every time my grandfather left his study.

But I understood one thing. The man standing at the top of the stairs, my father, saw everything.

He saw my grandfather grab my mother’s wrist and drag her into that study. He saw her look back at him.

That look was a silent plea for help.

But he turned his face away.

His phone rang. He pulled it from his suit pocket and headed toward the front door.

“Hello? Yes, about the charity gala tonight… My wife isn't feeling well. She won't be attending.”

My mother opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She watched his retreating back.

She looked at the dark mahogany desk visible through the cracked door of the study. Then, she stood on her tiptoes.

Just like the way she taught me in ballet class, she leaned forward.

When the white dress hit the ground, there was no sound.

All I heard was our housekeeper, Martha, screaming. Then came the sound of a glass breaking.

Finally, I heard the heavy thuds of my grandfather’s slippers as he ran down the hallway.

Blood spread out from beneath her body like a dark oil spill. It soaked her hair. It soaked the dress.

It soaked the soil of the Damask roses she loved so much.

I crouched in the dirt and didn't move an inch.

The day of the funeral, the Sterlings hosted a massive wake. Hundreds of people filled the estate.

Silas Sterling stood in the center of the hall in a crisp black suit. His hair was perfectly slicked back.

He bowed to every guest with practiced grace. If it weren't for the wreath that said “Beloved Wife Lily,” you wouldn't know it was a funeral.

It felt more like his annual corporate gala.

“Mrs. Sterling was a fine woman,” someone told my father.

“She was,” Arthur replied, dabbing at his eyes. There wasn't a single tear there. “Such a tragedy.”

That night, the family gathered for a private dinner.

Grandfather sat at the head of the table. Father sat to his right. I was tucked away at the very end.

Martha served one dish after another. Lobster thermidor, truffle risotto, prime rib―all things my mother never touched.

“Arthur, you need to step up for this family now,” Silas said, placing a piece of steak on my father’s plate.

“I will, Father.”

“From now on, let Cynthia take care of Nora’s needs,” Silas added. He glanced at the woman sitting next to my father.

Cynthia Vance.

That name stabbed into my six-year-old heart like a needle.

I knew her. She was my father’s secretary.

My mother had treated her like a sister. She told her everything―about my father’s coldness, my grandfather’s stares, and the noises from the study at night.

“Cynthia, you’re the only one I can talk to in this house,” my mother had once said. I heard it with my own ears.

And Cynthia had repeated every word to my father and grandfather.

Now, she was sitting in my mother’s chair. She was even wearing my mother’s clothes.

It was a pearl-white silk dress. The pearls at the neck were an heirloom from my grandmother.

“Nora, you can call me Mom from now on,” Cynthia said, smiling at me.

Her smile was soft and warm. She looked like a real mother.

“Okay, Mom,” I replied with a smile of my own.

As a six-year-old, I put down my fork. In that moment, I planted the first seed of my revenge.