The snow didn’t fall on Blackwood Ridge—it attacked. Wind screamed through bare trees, turning every breath into ice. Inside the Sterling Estate, however, warmth and wealth reigned. Crystal chandeliers glowed above senators and elites gathered for the annual Christmas Eve gala. I arrived late, not to celebrate, but to perform my role: the adopted success story, proof of the Sterlings’ generosity. As I reached the locked gates, something caught my eye in the storm—a small shape in pink flannel, half-buried in snow.
It was Mia. Eight years old, frozen, barely conscious. I rushed her into my car, cranked the heat, and begged her to stay awake. When she whispered that Father had thrown her out—calling her a “bad investment”—my blood turned cold. Beneath her soaked pajamas, I found a brutal mark: the Sterling family crest, burned into her skin by my father’s ring. Then she showed me what she’d stolen—a death certificate with her name on it, dated for Christmas Day. They hadn’t lost her. They had scheduled her death.
