Chapter 2No More Saving You In This Life

The living room lights were still on when I got back. Grant was sitting on the sofa, a cold glass of water on the coffee table. He looked up, his jaw set.

"Where have you been?"

"Eating."

He stood up, his voice simmering with a familiar, controlled anger. "You didn't make dinner. You know my mom’s stomach acts up if she doesn't eat on time."

I glanced at the dining table. There were greasy takeout boxes scattered about. Martha had clearly eaten just fine. Grant followed my gaze, his expression darkening. "Takeout isn't the same and you know it."

In my last life, I would have apologized. I would have felt the weight of a guilt that wasn't mine to carry.

"The stove works, Grant. The rice is in the pantry." I kicked off my shoes. "You’re twenty-seven years old. Figure it out."

Grant blinked, stunned. "What did you just say to me?"

Martha hurried out of her room, playing the peacemaker. "It’s okay, Grant. Evelyn’s just had a long day." She turned to me, her voice slipping back into that effortless maternal command. "Sienna didn't eat much. Make sure you get some oats or something light for her in the morning."

"She’s a guest," I said, setting my bag down.

Martha paused. "Pardon?"

"Guests can order DoorDash," I said slowly. "I'm not her maid."

Grant let out a sharp, cold laugh. "What is wrong with you today? Did you go off your meds or something?"

I looked at him. He had no idea I had already died once. He had no idea that his "we’re even" had shattered every ounce of love I’d spent a decade building. He only knew that for the first time, Evelyn wasn't bowing.

Grant grabbed his jacket and marched to the guest room door. He knocked, and it opened instantly. Sienna stood there in a silk robe, her hair artfully tousled. She paled when she saw me standing in the hall.

"We're going out for late-night tacos," Grant said, his eyes fixed on Sienna.

"But... what about Evelyn?" Sienna whispered, casting a performative, guilty look my way.

Grant didn't even look at me. "She’s not coming."

I sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. As the door clicked shut, I heard Grant’s muffled voice in the hallway: "Let her throw her tantrum. She’ll be back to normal by morning."

I waited until the house was silent. Then, I grabbed my keys and went to Richard’s locked study.

In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, there were supposed to be the records of the trust fund and insurance payouts my parents had left me. I jimmied the lock—a trick I’d learned during the lean years after Grant’s company failed in my previous life.

I found the account numbers. My laptop took forever to boot up, the glowing screen the only light in the room. I logged into the portal.

The balance was zero.

I stared at the screen. I refreshed. Still zero.

I called the 24-hour customer service line for the investment firm. After a series of security questions, the agent’s voice was polite but firm. "Ms. Miller—sorry, Ms. Lane—your funds were liquidated over a period of three years."

"By who?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"The authorized trustees on the account: Richard and Martha Miller."

I hung up. The coldness started in my fingertips and moved to my heart. They didn't just want me to marry their son to keep me in the family. They had stolen the only thing my parents had left me to ensure I had to stay. I was a captive dressed up as a daughter.

I spent the next hour photographing every document, every signature.

The front door opened. Grant and Sienna were back, their voices a low, intimate murmur.

"You shouldn't be so mean to her, Grant," Sienna said. "It makes me feel bad."

"She’s been miserable for years, Sienna. It’s not your fault she’s obsessed with me. She knew what this was when we got engaged."

I closed the laptop. He didn't love me. He never had. Good. That made what came next so much easier.