Chapter 1

1.

The divorce papers lay flat on the cold granite countertop, flanked by two one-way plane tickets.

One ticket was for Youngstown, Ohio. It meant staying in that rusting trailer park with Mick.

The other was for Greenwich, Connecticut. It meant flying to my mother Diane’s new mansion.

In my past life, Emma cried until her lungs burned. She wore Mom down and got taken to the East Coast.

I stayed behind. Someone had to be the sacrifice, and I was always the one who drew the short straw.

Back then, Mick actually quit drinking. God has a twisted sense of humor sometimes. The shale under our barren patch of land caught the eye of an energy company.

Fracking royalties turned him into a millionaire overnight. He became the kind of father who bought out entire malls just to make up for my miserable childhood.

And Emma? In Greenwich, she got a stepfather who treated her like air and a mother too busy playing the perfect trophy wife at the country club.

At nineteen, Emma took Mom’s Mercedes G-Wagon and wrapped it around an oak tree at ninety miles per hour. The toxicology report said her blood was mostly Xanax and Grey Goose vodka.

This time, when Mick’s trembling hand reached for his pack of Marlboros, Emma snatched it away and tossed it into the trash.

"I’m staying, Dad." She wrapped her arms around his beer belly, her eyes gleaming with greed. "Let Chloe go live the good life. I’ll take care of you."

Mick looked like he’d been struck by lightning. But then, a look of pathetic satisfaction settled on his face. He ruffled her hair with his rough hand.

I didn’t say a word. I just picked up the ticket to Connecticut.

Emma didn’t know the truth behind the "miracle." In our last life, Mick only quit drinking because I almost died.

I worked seventy hours a week at an Amazon fulfillment center until I collapsed on the conveyor belt, vomiting blood like a broken pump. It took my near-death experience to scare him sober.

This time? I quit. I just wanted a quiet place to sleep without debt collectors blowing up my phone.

"Good riddance," Mick waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. "Go live with your vain mother."

Behind him, Emma gave me a victor’s smile, mouthing the words: Don’t come crying back for money.

I forced a faint smile and said nothing.

The rain outside was bone-chilling, typical Midwest freezing rain. I shrank into my jacket, feeling the cold seep into my marrow.

Honestly, it didn’t matter where I went. I just needed a place where I didn’t have to rot in the Rust Belt.

Mom’s black Mercedes S-Class was idling at the corner. The window rolled down halfway, revealing her Botox-smooth, flawless face.

She glanced at my soaked, cheap parka, and a look of undisguised disgust flashed across her brow.

"God, Chloe. Get in. Don’t ruin my leather seats."

I reached for the back door.

"Put your bag in the trunk," she ordered. "That thing looks like you fished it out of a dumpster."

I paused, then obeyed.

When I slid into the back seat, I squeezed myself into the corner, trying to keep my wet jeans from touching the expensive interior.

The heat was blasting, but I was still shivering.

"Listen," Mom said, staring at the wipers. "Richard hates drama. Stay in your room unless you’re called. Don’t come downstairs unless necessary. Be invisible."

"Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t drag your feet when you walk."

"And absolutely, under no circumstances, mention your father. It makes Richard sick."

I watched the rain streak across the tinted window. "Understood."

A sharp migraine drilled into my temple like a power tool. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead, black spots dancing in my vision.

"What is it now?" Mom’s voice carried that familiar irritation.

"Car sick."

"Jesus, you are so delicate," she shook her head, her gold earrings swaying. "Just like your father."

I swallowed the metallic taste rising in my throat and leaned back against the headrest.

Never again. This was the last time.

Five hours later, we pulled into a private community on the Long Island Sound. Every house looked like a photo from Architectural Digest―brightly lit, but completely devoid of life.

"We’re here." Mom checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, taking a deep breath like a soldier going into battle.

I watched her transform. The shrew who complained the whole ride vanished, replaced by a docile, sweet trophy wife.

"Be polite. Call him Richard," she pursed her lips in the mirror, practicing her smile. "If you can’t manage that, call him Mr. Ward. Just don’t screw this up."

The house was modern minimalist, all glass and steel. In the living room, a man sat on an Eames lounge chair, a cashmere blanket over his legs, watching the stock market on a tablet.

When we entered, he looked up.

Richard Ward. The cold-blooded Wall Street shark who, in the last life, pushed Emma into the abyss with his indifference.