The city shimmered under a curtain of rain, the kind that softened the edges of everything it touched. Grace stood under a flickering streetlight, her coat clinging to her, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her throat.
She'd been waiting for an hour.
Mia's text had come with an address — Rutherford Hotel, Room 909.
No words, no warning. Just the place. The same hotel where Mark had once taken her for their anniversary, years ago.
It felt deliberate. It felt cruel.
Ethan had begged her not to go alone.
But this was blood. This was history. Some wounds you had to face yourself.
Grace stepped through the glass doors. The lobby gleamed in marble and gold, too bright, too polished — like a lie told beautifully. She gave her name at the desk. The clerk, polite and uneasy, handed her a keycard.
"Ms. Mia reserved the room under both your names," he said. "She said you'd understand."
Grace didn't. Not yet.
The elevator ride stretched like a confession. Each floor chimed too slowly. When the doors finally opened, the hallway smelled faintly of perfume — her own scent, the one she'd worn for years. A shiver crawled through her.
Room 909 waited at the end of the hall. The door was ajar.
Grace pushed it open.
Mia stood by the window, her back to the door, hair longer now, darker, cascading in waves that caught the dim light. She turned slowly, and for a moment, Grace forgot to breathe.
It was like staring into a mirror warped by time and pain.
"Hello, sister," Mia said.
Her voice hadn't changed — still velvet and venom mixed into something dangerous.
Grace closed the door behind her. "You're alive."
Mia smiled faintly. "You sound disappointed."
"I buried you," Grace said, her voice breaking. "In my head, you were gone. Dead. How could you let me think—"
Mia lifted a hand, silencing her. "You let me burn. Consider us even."
Grace flinched. "I tried to save you."
"Did you?" Mia's eyes glinted. "Or did you save yourself and call it love?"
The silence that followed was jagged. Grace took a step closer, studying her sister — the flawless makeup, the diamond bracelet, the calm too sharp to be peace.
"You've been with Mark," Grace said quietly. "All this time."
Mia's smile turned cold. "Mark found me. He told me everything. About the clinic, the therapy, the things you'd 'forgotten.' He said he wanted to make it right."
Grace's chest tightened. "And you believed him?"
"He gave me what you took — his attention, his love, his regret. You had the life that should've been mine, Grace. The house. The husband. The safety. While I lived in shadows, choking on smoke you left behind."
Grace's tears came hot. "You think this is revenge? Sleeping with him? Destroying me?"
Mia's eyes softened just slightly. "No, Grace. This isn't revenge. It's balance."
Grace stepped closer. "You're wrong. Whatever Daniel or Mark told you, we were both victims."
Mia's expression flickered — a storm trying to decide whether to break. "Victims don't start fires, Grace."
"I didn't—"
"Yes, you did." Mia's voice cracked, the calm finally shattering. "You struck the match. You said you wanted to scare them, not me. But you forgot I was still inside."
The world tilted. Grace shook her head violently. "No. I tried to stop you. I remember—"
"Memories lie," Mia whispered. "Especially the ones paid for."
Grace's knees weakened. The air between them vibrated with old ghosts. "Then why am I remembering it that way? Why does it feel real?"
Mia's gaze softened — the faintest flicker of the sister she once loved. "Because guilt writes better stories than truth."
She turned toward the window, her reflection shimmering against the rain-soaked glass. "Do you know what Daniel told me? That your therapy wasn't to protect you. It was to protect them. Your husband. Him. Even me. We were all easier to control with your mind fractured."
Grace's voice trembled. "Then who started it, Mia? The fire?"
Mia looked back at her, eyes gleaming with something between love and ruin. "Ask Mark."
A knock sounded at the door. Sharp. Familiar.
Grace froze.
Mia's lips curved into a bitter smile. "Right on time."
The door opened before Grace could move. Mark stepped inside, rain dripping from his coat, eyes shadowed and weary.
"Grace," he said softly. "I can explain."
Mia laughed — low and cruel. "You always say that."
Grace stared at them both, her pulse roaring in her ears. "You knew she was alive," she said to him. "You've known for years."
Mark said nothing.
Mia tilted her head. "Tell her, darling. Tell her why you really married her."
Mark's silence was answer enough.
Grace felt the ground shift beneath her feet. "You used me."
Mark took a step forward. "It wasn't like that—"
"Then what was it?" she cried. "Love? Guilt? Some twisted experiment between you and Daniel?"
Mark's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't understand."
Mia's smile deepened. "She's starting to. Aren't you, sister?"
Grace's breath trembled. "What did you do to me?"
Mark's eyes met hers, dark with something like remorse. "I kept you alive."
Mia laughed again — not joy, but hysteria. "Alive, yes. But never whole."
The storm outside cracked like thunder splitting the sky. In its flash, the truth finally began to take shape — a triangle of love, lies, and blood.
Grace looked between them, the pieces falling into place. "All this time," she whispered, "I thought the fire destroyed us. But it was you. Both of you."
No one denied it.