Chapter 2The Rebirth Trap

Before taking me to their penthouse on Park Avenue, Marcus and his wife, Eliza, took me for a full medical and psychological evaluation. They were... pleased with the results.

"Welcome home, Ava," Eliza finally said, taking my hand. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes were analytical.

In the Bentley on the way home, Marcus asked, "So, I’m your hero, huh? In what way?"

I clicked into the role. I was eight years old. I looked at him with carefully calibrated awe. "I read an article about you in Forbes at the library. I admire how you built your empire. The way you handle the markets. I want to build my own empire just like you someday."

This deeply pleased him. "You read Forbes? At your age?" "I've always been interested in business." He and Eliza exchanged a look. It was the look of investors who’ve just found a unicorn.

So, they didn't treat me like a child. They treated me like a project. My schedule was packed: Etiquette. Art History. Piano. French. Equestrian. They even had a specialist come in to teach me "social dynamics." And every night, I had to watch one hour of Bloomberg with Marcus. This was an elite education, designed to forge a successor.

A month in, they were more than pleased. They were proud. Their affection was becoming less of an act. One night, Eliza took me into her legendary walk-in closet. It was a vault. "Ava," she said, gesturing to the glittering shelves, "pick anything you like." "Thank you, Mom," I said, using the word deliberately. I then looked at the jewels. "I can identify most of these. Cartier, Harry Winston, the Bulgari heritage pieces. But... I don't really like them."

I am not Maya. Maya's downfall, I realized, wasn't just that they wanted a socialite. It's that she wanted to be one. She was lazy, shallow, and addicted to luxury. She had no other skills, so they used the only one she had.

Eliza's smile faltered. A complex emotion passed through her eyes. "What... what do you like, then?" I looked up at her, making my eyes wide. "Mom? If I ask for something, will you give it to me?" She paused, the calculation fading, replaced by something softer. "Of course, Ava. Tell me." "The books say... books say moms read their kids bedtime stories. I know I'm eight, but... I've never had one." "Mom," I whispered, "could you read to me tonight?"