Reborn Matriarch: Shattering The Orphan's Mask

Christa shot up from the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Her chest heaved violently. She dragged oxygen into her burning lungs, but it felt like swallowing broken glass. Cold sweat plastered the silk nightgown to her spine. Her vision was a blurred mess of dark shapes and spinning shadows.

The metallic smell of blood seemed to coat the back of her throat. The sound of her husband Grant's body hitting the Manhattan pavement echoed in her skull, a sickening crunch that made her stomach violently contract.

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to swallow the rising bile.

When she opened her eyes again, the room stopped spinning. She recognized the vaulted ceiling of the master bedroom in the Stephenson estate. The heavy velvet drapes were pulled back, letting in the pale morning light.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely grasp the phone resting on the mahogany nightstand.

She pressed the side button. The screen lit up.

The date displayed on the glass sent a physical shockwave through her nervous system. It was seven years ago. The exact day she had originally discovered Evelyn was sneaking around with that street thug, Dante Diaz.

The phone dropped onto the thick Persian rug with a soft thud.

Christa gripped the edge of the duvet. Her knuckles turned stark white. She dug her manicured nails into her palms until the sharp sting of pain grounded her back to reality.

She was back. Before the bankruptcy. Before Julianna went to prison to protect them. Before Grant jumped. Before Evelyn destroyed them all.

Christa took three slow, deep breaths. She visualized the towering inferno of hatred inside her chest and locked it behind a heavy iron door in her mind.

She threw off the covers. Her bare feet hit the floor, the coarse texture of the rug a welcome anchor.

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The woman staring back at her was not the hollowed-out, grieving shell from her nightmare. This woman had flawless skin, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that held the terrifying calm of a predator.

She turned and walked into the walk-in closet. She pulled out a tailored cashmere loungewear set. The soft fabric armored her body, hiding the slight tremor that still lingered in her muscles.

She pushed open the heavy oak door of the bedroom. The cold metal of the doorknob against her palm finalized her awakening.

She walked down the marble spiral staircase. Her steps were measured, completely silent against the stone.

As she reached the first-floor hallway, a sound caught her attention. It was a low, suppressed giggle coming from the living room.

Christa slowed her pace. She silently pulled her smartphone from her pocket, tapped the voice memo app, and hit record. She slid the device onto the edge of a decorative marble console table in the hallway, completely hidden behind a bronze sculpture. She stepped behind the shadow of a massive Roman column and looked toward the custom velvet sofa.

Evelyn was curled up among the cushions. She was typing furiously on her phone.

A sly, triumphant smile stretched across Evelyn's face. It was a look that completely shattered the tragic, well-behaved orphan persona she wore around the family.

In her past life, Christa would have marched over, snatched the phone, and started a screaming match. That reaction had only allowed Evelyn to play the victim and turn the family against her.

Not this time.

Christa stepped out from behind the column. She deliberately brought her heel down hard on the hardwood floor.

The sharp crack echoed through the quiet living room.

Evelyn's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide with panic. She scrambled to flip the phone face-down on the sofa cushion, her fingers slipping in her haste.

In a fraction of a second, the sly smile vanished. Evelyn bit her lower lip, forcing her eyes to well up with moisture.

"Mom." Evelyn's voice was sickeningly sweet, laced with a manufactured tremor.

Christa did not look at her. She kept her face entirely blank and walked straight past the sofa toward the open kitchen bar.

She picked up a heavy crystal pitcher. She poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The liquid splashed against the glass in a slow, agonizing rhythm.

She picked up the glass and walked back to the living room. She stopped right in front of the sofa, towering over the girl.

Christa held out the glass of orange juice. Her eyes were dead, devoid of any warmth or anger.

Evelyn froze. Her hand hovered in the air, too terrified to take the glass. The silence stretched. The air in the room grew heavy, pressing down on Evelyn's chest.

Evelyn's fingers twisted together in her lap. The lack of screaming was breaking her psychological defenses faster than any insult could.

"Mom, I know I was wrong," Evelyn choked out, letting a single tear roll down her cheek. "I decided to break up with Dante. I really did."

Christa looked down at the girl. She reached with her thumb and slowly twisted the diamond wedding ring on her left hand.

"Is that so?" Christa whispered, her voice devoid of any inflection. "Suit yourself."

Christa set the glass down on the coffee table with a sharp clink. She turned her back on Evelyn and walked toward the dining room, leaving the girl staring at the orange juice with a face pale with absolute confusion.