Snow didn’t fall on Blackwood Ridge—it tore through the air like knives. Wind shredded bare branches, slicing icy shards into your face, each breath tasting metallic. Beyond the tree line, the Sterling Estate gleamed like a private planet—warm, flawless, untouchable. The Sterling Christmas Eve Gala was in full swing: senators, tech executives, socialites, all polished and smiling beneath chandeliers bigger than small cars. A string quartet played delicate notes while champagne bubbled over, and money whispered softly in golden tones.
I arrived late. Not a guest—never a guest. I was a prop. The orphan they had “rescued,” paraded like evidence of their generosity. My seat at the table wasn’t mine; it was decoration.
My SUV crunched through the snow toward the iron gates. They should have been wide open for valets. Locked. I punched in my code. Access denied. Again. Denied. Frustration burned, then faded as my headlights swept the roadside.
There, fifty yards down, half-buried in a drift, was a flash of pink flannel. I slammed the car into park and ran. The snow swallowed my shoes, bit through my suit—but I didn’t feel it.
“Mia!” I shouted. She was a small, curled shape in the snow. Pale. Blue-lipped. No movement. I scooped her up—she weighed almost nothing—and wrapped her in my coat. “Mia, look at me,” I said. Her lashes flickered. “Liam?”
“I’m here,” I said. “You’re safe.”
She grabbed my wrist. “Don’t take me back. Father… said bad investments get liquidated.”
The words hit like bullets. My jaw clenched. Her teeth chattered violently. I eased aside her collar and saw it: a brand. The Sterling crest, stamped into her shoulder. They hadn’t just hurt her—they claimed her.
She handed me a crumpled paper. “I found this.”
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
Name: Mia Sterling
Date of Death: December 25th, 2024
Cause: Accidental Hypothermia
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