Chapter 1

My name is Noa. I'm twenty-three years old, and I grew up in a mansion in sunny Florida — one of those places that look perfect from the outside: manicured gardens, expensive cars in the garage, and silent dinners where the silverware made more noise than the people.

But beautiful houses know how to hide ghosts too.

My mother died when I was five. Cancer. The word still tastes bitter in my throat, like burnt coffee. I barely remember her — just fragments: the sweet scent of her perfume, the curly hair just like mine, and the way she held my hand as if she could protect the whole world from right there.

My father didn't wait long to remarry.

Too fast.

At the time I was just a kid, but now, looking back, certain pieces are starting to fit together in a disturbing way. My stepmother showed up in our lives almost like someone who already knew her way around the house. And with her came her daughter.

My half-sister.

At first I tried to like her. I really did. I wanted a sister. I wanted someone to share secrets with, swap clothes, do stupid teenage stuff together — but she never wanted to share anything with me. She wanted to take my place.

And the strangest part?

She looked a lot like my father.

I didn't notice it back then. Kids don't see cracks — just whole walls. But now... now it haunts me.

My father used to be a good man. Or maybe I just believed that because I needed to believe it. After the wedding, he changed little by little. First came the unfair scoldings. Then the cold looks. And then he simply let my stepmother poison everything between us, drop by drop, like someone dripping venom into expensive wine.

We were a powerful family. My father had an extremely successful shipping company. My mother came from a traditional family — old money. The kind that doesn't need to prove anything.

And my stepmother knew it.

She wanted my mother's money.

But my mother was smart.

Before she died, she put everything in my name. Houses, investments, inheritance — all legally protected so my father could never touch it. Sometimes I think she already knew. Maybe mothers sense certain tragedies before they happen.

And honestly?

I think that's why my stepmother grew to hate me.

Because I'm the living reminder of the woman who came before her.

I'm five-foot-three, fair-skinned, with an hourglass figure inherited from my mother and a complicated relationship with sweets. I love working out, but I'd never turn down a warm brownie at two in the morning. My curly hair falls down my back like wild waves, and my eyes... my eyes are identical to my mother's. Everyone says so.

Including my stepmother.

With that thin smile of hers, like a snake resting in the sun.

I'm cheerful, spontaneous, and I never learned to bow my head to anyone. I say what I think. I defend the people I love. And I hate people who use money to humiliate others. Having privilege never gave me the right to step on anyone.

But apparently some people in my family disagree.

And then there's Sebastian.

My fiance.

Sebastian is handsome, well-mannered, intelligent — the kind of man who walks into a room and makes everyone look. He always knows what to say, when to smile, and how to act.

Too perfect.

Sometimes I think he loves me.

Other times... I think he loves everything that comes with me.

And there's something that bothers me more than it should: he and my half-sister are too close.

Quiet giggles. Conversations that stop the second I show up. Quick glances that disappear before I can make sense of them.

Maybe it's paranoia.

Or maybe my entire life has been built on lies so well buried that they're only now starting to push through the surface — like poisonous flowers after the rain.

And this is just the first part of my story.

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