Chapter 2

The door slammed shut behind me.

...

Two nights later, at the Winthrop Academy Annual Charity Gala.

It would be my final appearance in this hypocritical circle.

I refused to hide in my room waiting to die. Even with only days left to live, a pathetic sliver of delusion still lingered in my heart.

I wanted to stand in the brightest light, just to see if they would spare me even a single second of concern when I started to crumble.

The moment I pushed open the heavy double doors of the banquet hall, a bloodcurdling scream suddenly shredded the elegant classical music.

I quickly shoved my way through the panicked crowd. The VIP lounge was a scene of absolute chaos.

Seraphina—the precious pearl of the Winthrop family, the most powerful clan in the North—was rolling on the floor in agony, clutching her face.

An entire tureen of boiling seafood bisque had been splashed across her face and chest. Her ruinously expensive silk gown was stained with thick, creamy broth and shrimp shells, while her exposed skin was blistering and turning a furious red right before my eyes.

And my darling sister, Cecily? She was collapsed on the floor just two steps away, wrapped tightly in Declan’s protective embrace.

"She bumped into me... I was just walking by with the soup, and suddenly my heart fluttered, and everything went black..." Cecily clutched her chest, sobbing as if she couldn't catch her breath.

I stared dead at Cecily's perfectly dry hemline and the stilettos planted firmly into the carpet, a wave of nausea turning my stomach.

There were no heart palpitations. She did it on purpose.

Seraphina had always been painfully arrogant. Just yesterday, she had sent a voice memo to their private debutante group chat, mocking Cecily as a "pathetic clown faking illness for pity." And today, she miraculously suffered this little "accident" in public.

"Call an ambulance! Now!" Declan roared, panicked.

But it was already too late.

The moment Mr. Winthrop stormed in with his bodyguards, the air in the banquet hall froze solid.

The most powerful billionaire oligarch in the North took one look at his daughter’s ruined face, snatched a heavy pistol from his bodyguard, and smashed the butt of the gun straight into a nearby champagne tower. Glass exploded everywhere.

"Who did this? Hand them over, or not a single member of the Vance family is walking out of here alive tonight," he snarled.

Richard's knees nearly buckled on the spot. My mother, Eleanor, clung to Cecily like a madwoman, frantically shuffling her behind her own back to shield her.

Standing a few feet away, I watched this farce with cold detachment and prepared to turn and leave.

Suddenly, my father, Richard, grabbed my arm. In that split second, a foolish part of me actually thought he was pulling me out of harm’s way. But the next moment, a brutal force yanked me forward—right into the path of Winthrop's gun.

"It was her! Violet did it!" Richard screamed, pointing a shaky finger at me. "Mr. Winthrop, my eldest daughter was jealous of Miss Seraphina and threw the hot soup at her on purpose! They’re identical twins, and in the chaos, everyone must have misread the situation!"

My head snapped toward Richard in sheer disbelief, the familiar, dull ache in my chest tightening like a coiled snake.

"Are you out of your mind?!" I yanked my arm from his violent grip, tears threatening to spill as I pointed at Cecily cowering behind Declan. My voice cracked. "The security cameras are right above us! People have eyes! You want me to take the fall for this vicious murderer?!"

"Shut your mouth!"

Eleanor shrieked as she lunged forward, slapping me so hard across the face it made my head spin.

My cheek burned, but the sting was absolutely nothing compared to the agony of my heart ripping in two.

I looked at the woman who gave me life, my vision blurring completely.

Her fingers dug painfully into my shoulders. Dropping her voice to a venomous hiss, she spat, "Cecily has a terminal illness! Winthrop will torture her to death! You’ve already signed the trial consent form; you only have days left anyway! Since you’re both going to die, why can't you protect your sister just this once before you go?!"

I choked out a laugh at the absolute absurdity of it, a tear dropping onto the back of my hand. Ignoring the violent thumping in my failing heart, I raised my arm and slapped her back—hard.

Smack! The sharp crack echoed through the silent hall.

"Don't touch me with your filthy hands!" I hissed, my eyes bloodshot. "Terminal illness? Aside from melting off someone else’s face, does she look like she’s dying to you?!"

I turned my gaze to Declan.

Still shielding Cecily, his eyes met mine before darting away in shame. His voice was cracked and utterly spineless. "Violet, I'm beg you... The Vance family can't afford to go bankrupt over crossing the Winthrops, and Cecily wouldn't survive a lynching. Be strong. Just... take the blame."

I stared at the face I had loved for three years, tears sliding down my cheeks uncontrollably.

"Declan, you sicken me," I said, enunciating every single word. "You're lower than trash."

Winthrop had completely lost his patience.

His ruthless gaze swept between Cecily and me, lingering on our identical faces. He didn't care who threw the soup. All he cared about was that the Vance family paid the price in blood. Immediately.

"Since Mr. Vance says it was the eldest, the eldest it is." Winthrop titled his chin up slightly, issuing a vicious command. "The old Northern custom. Ten marks of the Sinner's Brand. Scorch her flesh."

Two massive bodyguards stepped forward, pinning me down by my arms.

I refused to kneel. I thrashed and kicked, knocking over a nearby chair with my heels, screaming desperately at the parents cowering in the corner. "Let go of me! I didn't do it! Richard! Help me, you cowards!"

No one answered. I wasn’t even given a chance to fight back.

A piece of iron, heated to a glowing crimson with a portable blowtorch, was brought over. It hissed violently in the air.

I frantically searched the crowd for a familiar face, praying that someone, anyone, would scream "Stop!" But Richard turned his face away. Eleanor covered Cecily's eyes. And Declan stared dead at the floor, his body trembling.

Not a single one of them said a word in my defense.

"Ahhhhh!"

The sickening stench of burning flesh instantly filled the lounge.

I kept my eyes wide open, staring through the massive tears dragged out of me by sheer, unadulterated agony.

One, two, three... Ten full brands.

The smooth skin of my neck and the side of my face were reduced to a horrifying mess of ruined flesh, blood, and charred scabs melding together.

Only after Winthrop left, satisfied with his gruesome work, did the bodyguards release me. I crumpled heavily to the floor.

Declan finally mustered the courage to walk over.

Looking at my disfigured, blistered face, his eyes went red. He reached out a trembling hand as if to touch me. "Violet... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll find you the best plastic surgeon there is..."

I drew in a ragged breath and hawked a mouthful of bloody spit, landing it squarely onto his polished leather shoes.

"Get lost." My voice was a weak, trembling wheeze. Clenching my teeth, I pushed my hands against the floor, struggling to pull myself up from the pool of my own blood.

Richard smoothed his rumpled suit and checked his watch.

"Enough. Stash your pity, Declan," he barked his order. "The operating table at the underground clinic is prepped. Since her face is ruined anyway, keeping her here is just an embarrassment. Send her to the clinic immediately. We start the experimental treatment tonight!"

My face a mangled ruin of flesh and blood, I listened to my own father’s words. My tears had long since dried up. Yet, in the depths of a soul-crushing despair, a weak, hollow laugh slipped from my throat.

This was the family I had spent my life praying would accept me. This was the man who claimed to love me.

Fine. Perfect.

"Don't touch me. I can walk on my own." I fiercely pushed away the bodyguard trying to haul me up, and walked toward the doors, trailing a bloody footprint onto the floor with every step.