Chapter 1

Wynterhaven.

Winter nights in Wynterhaven kill people.

Not as a figure of speech.

Literally. Actually. They kill.

Elowen Perez had been in this alley for nearly twenty minutes.

The cold crept up from the soles of her feet, through her ankles, through her knees, seeping up her spine joint by joint — like someone had packed crushed ice under her skin and was slowly pressing it in. Her back was against the brick wall, the rough surface grinding through her coat. Every breath felt like swallowing broken glass.

The alley ran deep. Deep enough that even moonlight refused to enter, as if the place wasn't worth the trouble.

Three men blocked her way.

The one in front had a thick, brutal face. The smell of alcohol seeped from every pore, mixed with something sweet and rotten. His eyes moved down from her face — past her neck, past her shoulders — like he was pricing out a piece of merchandise.

Elowen's fingers pressed against the cold brick. She didn't move.

I'm going to die here.

The thought surfaced, and she felt strangely calm.

Three weeks ago, she'd been sleeping in the south-facing master bedroom of Perez Villa. Egyptian cotton sheets. Blackout curtains, ninety-nine percent. She thought that was her home. She thought Vaughn Perez and Hazel Fairchild were her parents. She thought Joseph Miller was going to marry her.

She'd assumed a lot of things.

All of it was wrong.

"Please—" She heard her own voice, shaking. "My family has money. Whatever you want, I'll pay."

The man spat on the ground.

"Got money? Then why are you sleeping on the street?"

She opened her mouth. Wanted to explain — wanted to say her parents were just angry, that this was all a misunderstanding—

"My dear sister."

A woman's voice drifted in from the mouth of the alley. Soft. Pleasant. Like a very well-sharpened knife.

Elowen's heart stopped for half a second.

A silhouette stepped into the alley against the light, heels clicking. Prada suit. Cartier earrings. Flawless makeup. Completely out of place in this rotting, dead-end.

Abigail Perez.

The Perez family's biological daughter.

Three years ago, a DNA report had rewritten Elowen's entire life. She wasn't a Perez. She had never been. She was the one who'd been switched at birth.

Abigail walked up and looked down at her. The three-carat diamond on her ring finger caught the dim streetlight and threw it back, sharp enough to hurt.

"Mom and Dad are done with you." Her voice stayed soft. "And your fiancé — last night, he proposed to me."

The world went quiet.

Not peaceful and quiet. Vacuum quiet. The kind of silence that follows a ruptured eardrum.

"That's not possible." Elowen heard herself say. "They love me. They wouldn't—"

The slap came fast and clean, scattering the rest of her words.

Abigail shook out her wrist. The contempt in her eyes was almost too much for her face to hold.

"They're my parents. You're a stray who got brought home by mistake. What gives you the right to compete with me?"

Elowen's cheek burned.

But the pain in her chest was worse.

The day the DNA results came back, she'd understood for the first time that her place in the Perez family had shifted.

From that day on, she'd become like a dog that had learned to perform — constantly adjusting, constantly appeasing. When Vaughn and Hazel frowned, she searched herself for what she'd done wrong. When Abigail cried, she apologized immediately.

She'd turned herself into a mirror, only useful for reflecting what other people wanted to see, until she'd reflected herself out of existence entirely.

Abigail always found a way to set herself up.

A glass of red wine was knocked over. A perfectly timed sigh. A fall staged with precise choreography. Every single time, Vaughn and Hazel took Abigail's side.

Then, a month ago, Abigail "fell" down the staircase and sobbed that Elowen had pushed her.

Elowen never got the chance to explain. Her bank cards were frozen. Her number was blocked. Her bags were thrown out the door.

She'd slept in subway stations. Dug through trash cans. Watched her fingers turn purple in the cold.

Until tonight. Cornered in a dead-end alley.

"Do you know why you lost?"

Abigail crouched down, dropping her voice low, like she was sharing a secret.

"Because I came back. I've lived this before."

Elowen's pupils shrank.

"Every little move you made — I already knew."

Abigail smiled. Her mouth curved into something sweet. Her eyes were frozen solid.

"I'm going to take everything from you. And you will never, ever recover."

Lived this before.

The words worked like a key, unlocking every mystery that had never made sense.

Why had Abigail always been one step ahead? Why had every trap she set landed with the precision of something rehearsed a hundred times?

Elowen had lost. Not because she hadn't tried hard enough. She'd lost because her opponent had already seen every card in the deck.

"Alright." Abigail stood and turned to the three men with a smile. "My sister here was spoiled her whole life. Soft skin. Very delicate. Tonight, consider it my treat."

The three men exchanged a look.

Something greedy lit up in their dull eyes.

Footsteps. Heavy breathing. The metallic scrape of a zipper.

Elowen's hand moved across the frozen ground. Gravel. A cigarette butt. Then — a broken beer bottle. The jagged edge bit into her palm. Blood came. She felt it, but there was no pain.

When the first man lunged, she gripped the glass and drove it forward with everything she had.

The dull sound of glass breaking through skin. Something warm splashed across her face.

"Fuck!" The man stumbled back, clutching his arm, screaming.

The other two closed in.

Elowen knew she wasn't getting out.

At the mouth of the alley, Abigail's silhouette was already walking away. Her heels struck the pavement in clean, even beats — like a countdown.

No next life.

But if there were one—

She would never again get down on her knees like a dog and beg people who never loved her to spare her a little mercy.

She pressed the glass to the side of her neck and closed her eyes.

The dark came faster than she expected. Her last thought wasn't fear. It wasn't rage. It was something exhausted, something almost like relief—

Finally. I can rest.

Then nothing.

"Elowen? Elowen!"

The voice came from somewhere far away. Muffled. Warped. Like sound traveling through deep water.

Elowen's eyes snapped open.

Crystal chandelier. Twelve lights.

Swarovski facets scattered light across a cream-colored Persian rug. She knew every one of those light patterns. She'd done homework on this rug. She'd had birthdays under this chandelier.

The living room of Perez Villa.

Her first instinct was to touch her neck.

Skin, unbroken. No wound. No blood. Her pulse beat steadily beneath her fingers.

"What's wrong with you? Abigail is talking to you."

Hazel's voice came from her right, carrying that barely-there edge of impatience.

Elowen turned slowly.

On the sofa, Abigail wore a plain white dress. Hair loose. Eyes are faintly red. She looked like a startled rabbit.

"Sister..." Abigail bit her lip, her voice small and hesitant. "Can we live together like real sisters from now on?"

This scene.

Identical to three years ago.

Elowen sat still and let it unfold in front of her — like watching a film she already knew the ending of, starting over from the beginning.

The day Abigail was first brought home.

She was back.

She looked down at her hands. Neatly trimmed nails. Pale pink polish. Not the hands she'd had on the streets — broken nails, swollen knuckles, skin cracked raw by the cold.

Three years. She had three full years to do this differently.

"Elowen." Vaughn cleared his throat. His tone came from somewhere above her.

"Abigail is our biological daughter. She's been through a great deal out there. Your room faces south — the best light in the house. You'll give it to her while she recovers."

Word for word.

Elowen raised her head slowly and looked at Abigail.

The "startled rabbit" was watching her from the corner of her eye. Somewhere behind the performance, something flickered — caution, and underneath that, fear.

Because Abigail knew what Elowen was supposed to do next.

What she didn't know was that the Elowen sitting here had already died once.

Elowen stood up.

"No."

Quiet. But clear.

"My room — if you want it, take it." She looked at the two people she had called Mom and Dad for eighteen years.

"I've made a decision." She paused and said it one word at a time. "I'm going to find my real parents."

Dead silence in the living room.

Abigail's pupils contracted sharply.

And the "startled rabbit" — her expression cracked.