Chapter 1

The ghost of my right hand ached.

It was a constant, dull throb, a phantom limb that remembered the weight of ivory keys and the sweeping grace of a Rachmaninoff concerto.

Five years.

Five years since the screech of tires, the crush of metal, and the moment my world went silent, then exploded into pain.

My husband, David Miller, called it a tragedy.

He called me his hero.

He built a gilded cage for me, a testament to my sacrifice. Our sprawling penthouse overlooked the city, a palace of glass and steel where private chefs crafted meals I barely tasted and custom gowns flown in weekly hung in my closet like beautiful shrouds.

He doted on me in public, his hand always possessively on my waist at the grand charity galas he sponsored in my name. "For Olivia," the banners would read, "whose love knows no bounds."

The world saw a tech mogul worshiping his wounded wife, a celebrated concert pianist silenced in her prime.

They saw a love story.

I saw a life sentence.

But my passion for music hadn't died in that wreck. It was the only part of me that survived intact. Fueled by a quiet rage I mistook for determination, I spent those five years in agonizing, relentless practice.

The prosthetic was a marvel of David' s tech empire, cold and clinical, but I learned to use it. I forced my left hand, once the supportive partner, to become the star. I retrained every muscle, every nerve, relearning a language I once spoke with effortless fluency.

The melody was different now, tinged with a sorrow and a strength it never had before.

I was finally ready.

The Golden Rose Music Awards, the most prestigious night in classical music, had invited me as a guest performer. A triumphant return. A story of resilience.

David was ecstatic. It was the perfect PR move for him, the culmination of his public performance as the devoted husband.

Tonight, he was hosting a small, pre-gala dinner for his inner circle at our home. I was in my studio, putting the final touches on my piece, when I heard voices from the adjoining library.

David' s voice, smooth and confident. And the voice of his best friend, Mark.

I paused, my fingers hovering over the keys.

"It's a masterpiece, David. The whole thing," Mark said, his tone a mix of awe and unease. "The comeback story, the adoring husband. You've played it perfectly."

A low chuckle from David. "It' s all about the narrative, Mark. People love a good story."

"Still," Mark pressed, his voice dropping lower, "that car crash... it was perfectly staged. But how could you be so sure? How could you know Olivia would throw herself over you, that she'd sacrifice her hand to save you?"

The air in my studio turned to ice. My breath caught in my throat.

Staged?

I stood up, my legs trembling, and crept toward the library door, which was slightly ajar.

I peered through the crack.

David stood by the fireplace, swirling a glass of amber liquid. A cruel, satisfied smile played on his lips.

"Because she loves me," David said, his voice a chilling, simple statement of fact.

He took a sip of his drink.

"Just as I love Sarah. We' d both sacrifice anything for our loved ones."

Sarah.

Sarah Jenkins. The brilliant but insecure pianist he' d taken under his wing, his protégée. The one who had risen to stardom in the vacuum I had left.

The world in my head tilted, spinning violently off its axis.

Mark was silent for a moment, letting the weight of the confession settle in the room. "The Triple Crown... Sarah' s going to get it. Because of you."

"She deserves it," David said, his voice hardening. "Ollie was always in the way. Her talent... it was too loud. It overshadowed everyone. Sarah needed a clear path. I gave her one."

My hand, my real one, flew to my mouth to stifle a scream.

The charity galas. The custom gowns. The public adoration.

It wasn't a tribute. It was a cage.

It wasn't love. It was a cover-up.

My five years of grueling, painful work, the relearning, the fighting, the believing that my music was a testament to our shared survival... it was all a grotesque joke. He hadn't been honoring my sacrifice; he'd been celebrating his success.

My life, my love, my loss-all a meticulously crafted lie.

The world didn't just crumble. It was obliterated.

In the rubble of that annihilation, something cold and hard began to sprout.

Revenge.

I stared at my reflection in the dark glass of the studio door. The woman looking back was a stranger, her eyes wide with a horror that was quickly being consumed by a cold, burning fire.

He thought he had silenced me. He thought he had turned me into a beautiful, broken symbol of his manufactured love story.

He was wrong.

I looked down at my hands. The living and the lifeless. They would be his ruin.

I would not be a guest performer at the Golden Rose.

I would be a competitor.

I would enter the arena he built for his lover, and I would take back everything he had stolen from me. I would not just dethrone Sarah.

I would burn his entire empire to the ground.

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