The Unwanted Fiancée And Her Spectacular Comeback

Just as Avalon reached for the doorknob to her room, a sweet voice called her name.

"Ava?"

Her stepsister, Blair Hayes, stood a few feet down the hall, a picture of preppy perfection in her Sterling Prep uniform. Her face was arranged in an expression of deep, sisterly concern.

"Are you okay? Dad is just worried about you," Blair said, moving closer, reaching out to take Avalon's arm in a familiar, proprietary gesture.

Avalon shifted her weight, just enough for Blair's hand to miss its target. She looked at her stepsister, her eyes cold and assessing. "Do I look okay to you?"

Blair's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of annoyance, of raw resentment, flashed in her eyes before being expertly masked again. "I know you're upset," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But apologizing to Clay is the easiest way. Just say sorry, and everything will go back to normal."

Normal. Avalon knew what Blair's "normal" meant. It meant Avalon as the embarrassing, unstable screw—up, the perfect foil to Blair's golden—girl persona. A walking cautionary tale that made Blair shine all the brighter.

She didn't have the time or energy for this. She turned, opened her door, and shut it quietly but firmly in Blair's face.

The room assaulted her senses. It was a pink and white nightmare of lace, ruffles, and posters of vapid—looking male celebrities. The air was thick with the cloying scent of vanilla body spray. This was the other one's sanctuary. It made Avalon's skin crawl.

She strode to the window and yanked back the heavy curtains, letting harsh sunlight flood the room, as if trying to bleach the cloying sweetness away. Her eyes scanned the space. On the cluttered vanity, a small, antique silver locket caught her eye. She picked it up. Empty. A fragment of memory supplied the context: the betrothal gift from the Astor—Vance family. A symbol of a contract she had no part in making. She opened a drawer and dropped it inside, the clatter of metal on wood a satisfyingly final sound.

Her priority was escape. She began a systematic search of the room, looking for any electronics the other one might have stashed. Finally, in the back of the cavernous walk—in closet, tucked inside a designer shoebox, she found it: a slim, top—of—the—line laptop.

She sat at the desk, powered it on, and bypassed the simple password—the name of the celebrity on the desktop wallpaper—with contemptuous ease. Notifications from a dozen social media apps began pinging, a cacophony of a life she didn't recognize. She ignored them all, opening an encrypted browser.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. She logged into an encrypted email account on a dark web forum, a secure channel she had used in her past life. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Please.

The inbox loaded. There was one new message, sent a week ago. The sender's handle was simple: S.

Still alive? I have a lead on the Ghost Orchid. Nevada desert. Interested?

Avalon's breath caught in her throat. The Ghost Orchid. A rare, almost mythical epiphyte known for its unique alkaloids, which had neuro—regenerative properties. It was the key. The potential cure for the fire in her brain.

S was a top—tier hacker she'd crossed paths with online years ago. They were rivals, occasionally allies, trading information in a world of shadows and code. She never thought he'd still be trying to reach her after a year of silence.

Her reply was three words.

Location. Details. Now.

She hit send. Less than thirty seconds later, a reply appeared. It contained a single, heavily encrypted file. As she downloaded it, another message popped up.

Careful. You're not the only one looking.

She decrypted the file. It was a set of coordinates. Not in Nevada. Here. On the outskirts of Sterling City, in a derelict industrial park.

Hope, sharp and fierce, surged through her, momentarily eclipsing the pain. She had a target. She had a chance.

Now, she just had to get out of this house.

The dull throb in her temple returned, a grim reminder that her time was running out. She closed the laptop and began to plan.