The surgeon said I’d never walk again. But no one warned me that when I finally stood—using steel-reinforced braces and sheer rage—the first person I’d face would be Marcus, smiling like a lover, holding a bouquet like a penitent.

He stood at the edge of my penthouse balcony, wind tugging at his tailored coat, the city lights below us like fallen stars. "Hailey," he whispered, voice thick with fake sorrow. "I heard you were back."

Back? I wasn’t back. I was reborn.

My fingers curled around the cane—not just a support, but a blade disguised in elegance. The DNA report burned in my pocket: Subject HAILEY VEL CROWNHEIR DESIGNATE. My adoptive father, the janitor who raised me, had found the file in a discarded lab bin. My real family—three brothers forged in war, a fiancé bound by oath—had spent years searching.

And now Marcus thought he could waltz back in with flowers and lies?

"You don’t get to say my name," I said, stepping forward, every movement agony and triumph. "You don’t get to look at me."

Behind me, the elevator chimed. Kael stepped out, trench coat flaring, eyes locked on Marcus like a predator sighting prey. But this was my fight.

Marcus raised his hands. "I made a mistake. I want to fix it."

The cane trembled. Not from fear—from power. I had two choices: let him speak… or silence him forever.