“Mia, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Her lashes fluttered. “Liam?” The word was thin, cracked.

“I’m here,” I said. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes widened, but not with relief—terror. She grabbed my wrist, desperate.

“No,” she gasped. “Don’t take me back. Father said I’m a bad investment. He said bad investments get liquidated.”

The words hit harder than the storm outside.

“What did he do?” My voice was low, sharp.

“He threw me out,” she said, teeth chattering violently. “He said if I came back, the doctors would come. The doctors with the needles.”

I eased aside her collar, expecting bruises—and I found a brand.

A deep purple-black imprint on her shoulder blade, clean edges, unmistakable. The Sterling crest, the mark of Arthur Sterling’s signet ring.

He hadn’t just hit her. He had stamped her like property.

Mia fumbled in her pajama pocket. “I found the paper,” she whispered. “Is this why?”

A wet, crumpled sheet unfolded:

CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
Name: Mia Sterling
Date of Death: December 25th, 2024
Cause: Accidental Hypothermia

It was December 24th.

They weren’t improvising. They were scheduling.

My phone buzzed. Caller ID: “Home.” I stared at it. My first instinct screamed to drive to the police. But Chief Miller—the same law enforcement who should have protected us—would be at the gala, drinking Arthur’s scotch. The judge who signed the adoption paperwork would be smiling beneath the chandeliers. In this town, the Sterlings didn’t call the law. They hosted it.