Her sister burned down her estate when she refused to give up the venue for free—unaware her parents were in the hospital hallway covering up attempted murder.

Despite the success and the distance, anniversaries have a peculiar way of clawing their way back into your chest.

It was late October again—the exact two-year anniversary of the night Fallon threw the antique oil lamp into my studio.

I had spent the entire day on-site overseeing the setup for a massive charity gala we were styling for the North Carolina Children’s Hospital. By 9:00 PM, the grand ballroom was a breathtaking wonderland of white roses, suspended crystal chandeliers, and warm, amber lighting that caught the eye of every donor and dignitary in attendance.

As the event kicked off and the guests mingled, I stepped outside onto the quiet terrace to catch my breath.

The crisp autumn air filled my lungs, cool and clean. I lifted my hands, tracing the faint, silvery burn scars that still wrapped around my forearms beneath the silk sleeves of my evening dress. They were permanent reminders—not of pain, but of survival.

My phone chimed in my pocket.

It wasn't Hayes. It wasn't Marcus.

An unknown number with a correctional facility area code.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, listening to the muffled music playing inside the ballroom. Then, calmly, I pressed accept.

"Mave?"

The voice was thin, raspy, and broken. It didn't sound like the fierce, entitled sister who had screamed at me in the studio. It sounded small, hollow, and utterly defeated.

"Fallon," I said, my voice level and devoid of emotion.

"I... I know I shouldn't be calling," she whispered, a ragged sob catching in her throat. "The counselor gave me my monthly phone privileges. I... Mave, it's so cold here. Everyone hates me. Mom and Dad lost the house, they won't even answer my letters anymore... Please. You're my sister. Can't you do something? Can't you call your lawyers?"

I looked out across the manicured gardens of my estate, watching the moonlight glisten off the reflecting pool where the old studio used to stand.

"Fallon," I said softly. "You called me your sister the night you tried to burn me alive. You called me your sister when you stood by while Mom and Dad tried to frame me for your crime."

"I was angry! I was stupid! I didn't think—"

"No, Fallon," I interrupted quietly. "You didn't think. You never thought that actions had consequences because you lived your entire life believing you were the center of the universe."

"Mave, please! I have ten more years in here! I can't survive this!"

"Yes, you can," I replied, my tone steady and unyielding. "Prison is where you finally learn what accountability feels like. You wanted everything I had, Fallon. Now you have all the time in the world to think about it."

She started sobbing—a high, desperate, broken sound that echoed through the phone line.

I didn't feel rage. I didn't feel joy.

I just felt completely, perfectly free.