The cemetery was quieter than she remembered. Only the wind moved, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and half-burnt incense sticks left behind by some other grieving soul. Charlotte stood still before the headstone that bore her mother's name:
Maya Sharma (1981-2018)
Beloved wife, cherished mother.
The marble had yellowed at the edges. Time had eaten into it just as it had eaten into her memory. Softening dates, blurring faces and dulling the sharpest pains.
Yet standing there now she could feel the old wound reopen. Precise and merciless.
A week had passed since Charlotte's rebirth.
She lowered herself onto the cold stone bench beside the grave, her fingers tracing the carved letters as though the texture might bring her mother back.
"It's been a month, Ma," she whispered. "A month of waking up and realising that I'm an orphan now. Father left me too... and he was really sorry in the end. I should've forgiven him."
The wind sighed through the tall deodars, carrying no answer. A sparrow hopped close, cocking its head as though listening.
The sky hung heavy with clouds. The kind that never cried but always threatened to.
Charlotte let her thoughts wander. Not by choice but by habit. The mind had a cruel way of circling back to its pain.
These were the days, she remembered, when Anna had become her solace. When everyone else had turned cold, cautious, or politely distant, Anna had been warm. She used to visit her often, uninvited but always smiling, always patient.
Charlotte had once thought of her as a little sister sweet, loyal and wounded by her own losses. She'd failed to notice the venom hidden behind her soft gaze. The malice masked beneath that sugary tone.
Anna wasn't a legitimate Wilson, yet Charlotte had believed that didn't matter. Both of them had lost their father; both were too young then, too willing to see kindness where there was calculation.
Back then, Old Master Wilson had hated those visits.
"She is not one of us," he'd say, slamming his cane against the marble floor.
But Charlotte, stubborn and naive, had brushed it off. She had thought her grandfather old-fashioned, too rigid to see beyond bloodlines.
Now she knew better.
The comfort had been a carefully placed noose.
She closed her eyes, trying to still the ache.
Her grandfather's voice echoed faintly.
"Charlotte, don't let kindness make you blind."
Too late for that.
The memories returned with brutal clarity. Her mother's funeral, the whispering guests, the hushed gossip about Sarah, the nurse who had stayed too long and smiled too easily. The scandal had split the Wilson family years ago, dragging her father's name through the mud. She could still see the disgust in her grandfather's eyes, and her mother's quiet dignity as cancer slowly consumed her.
Charlotte remembered her father, Patrick Wilson, kneeling by the hospital bed, his voice cracking with regret.
He had made mistakes, terrible ones but he had tried to make them right.
In the end, he had left eighty-five per cent of his company shares to Charlotte. Giving the remaining fifteen to Sarah and Anna. It wasn't vengeance. It was guilt neatly disguised as responsibility.
But guilt never dies. It simply finds a new host.
Charlotte's jaw tightened. In her first life, she had squandered everything. She'd let Anna play the part of the loyal sister while quietly slicing through every thread of trust around her. She'd believed every word, every tear. Especially the one about Warren Solomons.
That name still made her chest tighten.
She could see it all again. The disbelief in Warren's eyes that day, the coldness that replaced every trace of warmth between them. Anna's story had been viciously precise: she'd accused Warren of trying to assault his junior at university, claimed he'd silenced the girl with money, even produced doctored photographs as proof.
She'd said the victim was her close friend and Charlotte, righteous and foolish had believed her.
Warren had cleared his name later, of course. But the damage had already been done. Not to his reputation, but to something far deeper. The friendship. The trust.
According to the timeline, it had been months since that day. Months since she'd last seen him. Warren had been her constant, her shadow and her knight in shining armour when the world turned cruel.
Their families had been close. Old Master Solomons and Old Master Wilson had built their empires side by side. Warren though four years older, had always dragged her along to lessons, to events, to every place she might've felt out of place. He had cared for her as though she were made of glass.
He was the one people feared to approach. Cold, analytical and unreadable. His warmth had always been a rare thing, reserved only for her.
And she had destroyed it.
Now, even after fate had handed her a second chance, their bond remained fractured. Warren treated her with distant civility. Businesslike, polite, and utterly indifferent.
And she couldn't blame him.
She'd earned his distance.
Charlotte looked up at the grey sky and drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly.
"This time," she murmured.
"I won't let them win. I won't let them succeed."
Her fingers curled into fists. The promise was silent but fierce.
She would save what she'd lost. Her grandfather whose accident had shattered the last remnants of the family; her inheritance, which Anna and Sarah had chipped away at; and perhaps, if fate allowed, her dignity.
The church bells rang faintly from across the hill.
She rose, brushing the dust from her palms, and placed a single white lily on the grave.
"For peace," she said softly. "Yours... and mine."
WILSON MANSION
Back at the Wilson estate, the house loomed like an ageing monarch. Tall, proud and hollow. The corridors still smelled faintly of rosewood polish and dust.
Ronnie, the maid, met her at the entrance, wringing her hands in that nervous habit she'd never managed to break.
"Miss Charlotte....." she said, voice trembling.
"You're back early. I....."
Her words faltered.
"Miss Anna's waiting for you. In your room."
Charlotte stopped mid-step. The words hit like a drop of ice down her spine.
"In my room?" she asked evenly.
"Yes, ma'am. She said she wanted to see you."
Ronnie's eyes flickered with unease, as though she wanted to say more but didn't dare. Charlotte gave a brief nod and started toward the grand staircase.
As she climbed, her reflection followed her in the tall hallway mirror composed, pale and unreadable.
But in her eyes, something flickered. Not fear. No surprise. A cold awareness.
Anna had chosen her timing well.
On Maya Sharma's death anniversary of all days.
At the top of the stairs, she paused for a moment. The faint hum of piano keys drifted from her room. Gentle, familiar almost mocking.
Anna was playing one of her mother's favourite tunes.
Charlotte felt the air in her chest tighten.
Five years ago, she would've walked in smiling, disarmed by the sound.
Today, she let the memory burn instead of soothe.
She turned the doorknob slowly.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of lilies and perfume. Anna's perfume is sugary and sharp. Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. Lighting the ivory piano in the corner.
Anna sat there. Her back to the door, hair loose, swaying slightly as she played.
Charlotte didn't speak. She watched. Each note pressing against the ghost of her past self, each sound scraping against her restraint.
"Sister Charlotte," Anna said finally, without turning.
"You didn't tell me you'd visit the cemetery today. I would've loved to accompany you. I know how much you adored Aunt Maya."
Her voice dropped at the end.
Soft almost mournful.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The perfect image of sympathy.
If this had been the old Charlotte, she would've felt grateful to have a sister like Anna.
But the air between them now felt charged. Like silk stretched too thin.
Charlotte's lips curved slightly, but it wasn't a smile.
"You would've accompanied me?" she asked quietly. Her tone was edged with disbelief.
Anna turned then, her eyes wide, the picture of feigned surprise.
"How could I not? She was your mother. And you know how fond I was of her."
Charlotte stepped closer, her heels silent against the carpet. "Yes," she said softly. "I know."
The two women stood facing each other. One all polished charm, the other a calm storm. The air between them thickened, as if even the house held its breath.
Charlotte tilted her head, studying her stepsister.
"You wanted to talk?" she asked.
Anna's smile brightened, practised and flawless. "Yes... I have great news to share with you."
Charlotte's expression didn't change. But deep inside, the old anger stirred dark, patient and coiled.
"Of course, let's talk," she said. Voice low and deliberate.
And with that, she closed the door behind her.