Chapter 1

For seven years, I worked as a crime scene cleaner, scrubbing away death to save my son' s life. I finally earned the $250,000 for the experimental treatment that would cure his rare genetic disorder.

But when I arrived at the hospital, I overheard my boyfriend, Brad, talking. It wasn't about a cure. It was a "social experiment," a seven-year test to prove I wasn't a gold digger. My son was never sick.

My best friend was in on it, laughing. Then I heard my son' s voice.

"I don't want smelly Mommy to come back. I want Aunt Jaime. She smells like cookies."

They humiliated me at his school, calling me a mentally unstable cleaning lady. My son pointed at me and told everyone he didn't know me, while the man I loved dragged me away, accusing me of being a disgrace.

My love wasn't love; it was data. My sacrifice wasn't a sacrifice; it was a performance. They had turned my own child against me for their sick game.

They thought they were testing a poor, simple cleaner. They didn't know he was Bradford Yates, heir to a billion-dollar dynasty. And they had no idea I was Alyssa Dyer of the Dalton family.

I picked up the phone and called my brother.

"I'm coming home."

Chapter 1

Alyssa POV:

The last dollar I earned cleaning up after death was the one that was supposed to save my son' s life.

For seven years, I had scrubbed away the final, brutal moments of other people' s lives. The smell of bleach and iron was tattooed on the inside of my nose, a permanent ghost in my senses. I had worked until my hands were raw, until my back was a constant, screaming knot of pain, all for the number on a screen. Today, that number finally hit its target. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The cost of an experimental treatment that would cure Joshua' s rare genetic disorder.

The final check felt heavy in my pocket, a sacred weight. I' d just finished a scene in a downtown apartment, a lonely end that left a bitter taste in my mouth, but it didn't matter. It was over. No more kneeling on cold, stained floors. No more seeing the chalk outlines of strangers in my sleep.

My old pickup truck rattled as I drove toward the hospital, a bright blue box for a model spaceship sitting on the passenger seat. Joshua loved anything to do with space. I imagined his face lighting up, his small hands carefully piecing together the plastic parts. Soon, we' d have all the time in the world for things like this. Soon, he' d be healthy, and I could just be a mom. Not a cleaner. Not a woman constantly haunted by the specter of medical bills. Just... Mommy.

I parked the truck and pulled the rearview mirror down, trying to fix myself. I looked worn, older than my twenty-nine years. There were permanent shadows under my eyes, and my hair was ruthlessly scraped back into a ponytail. I smelled faintly of industrial cleaner. It was a smell I could never quite wash off. But my smile was genuine, wider than it had been in years. I was bringing them the best news of our lives.

I wanted to surprise them. Brad-my Brad Smith, the man who had stood by me through all this-was probably in the private family lounge the hospital provided for long-term patients. Jaime, my best friend, had likely brought Joshua his favorite snacks.

The hallway to the lounge was quiet. As I got closer, I heard voices through the slightly ajar door. I slowed my steps, my hand already reaching for the doorknob, the smile frozen on my face.

It was Brad' s voice, smooth and confident, not the weary tone he usually used when discussing Joshua' s health. "The data from the placebo trial is conclusive, Mr. Yates. Dr. Evans has confirmed it. Joshua' s vitals have remained perfectly stable. He' s responded exactly as a healthy six-year-old would."

My blood went cold. Mr. Yates? Placebo trial?

Another voice, clinical and unfamiliar, replied. "Excellent. It' s a fascinating social experiment, Bradford. Seven years is a long time. Are you satisfied with the results?"

Bradford? My Brad' s name was Brad Smith. I pressed my ear closer to the door, my heart pounding a sick, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

"Almost," Brad-Bradford-said. "She' s proven she' s not a gold digger. She' s worked a job that would make most people vomit just to save up the money. She hasn' t asked me for a dime more than what my 'salary' could cover."

Then I heard her. Jaime. My best friend. Her voice was light, playful. "So, the test is over? Can you finally tell her the truth?"

A cold dread, sharp and suffocating, wrapped around my lungs. This had to be a mistake. A horrible, twisted joke.

"Not yet," Bradford said, and I could picture the arrogant tilt of his head. "I think we need another six months. Just to be absolutely sure her character is sound. Once she hands over that final check, we' ll observe her for half a year. See if she resents it. See if she changes."

"Another six months?" Jaime' s voice was laced with something that sounded like excitement. "Brad, you' re so cruel. I love it."

Then, I heard my son' s voice. Joshua' s. Bright and clear.

"Daddy, can we go home soon? I don' t want smelly Mommy to come back. She always smells like bad cleaning stuff."

The words hit me harder than a physical blow. Smelly Mommy.

"Soon, buddy," Bradford said affectionately. "We just have to wait a little longer."

"I don' t want her," Joshua insisted, his voice rising into a whine. "I want Aunt Jaime. She smells like cookies and she buys me new Legos. Mommy just cries."

"I know, Josh," Jaime said, her voice dropping to a syrupy coo. "Aunt Jaime will stay with you. We' ll have so much fun, just the three of us."

"Just another six months," Bradford repeated, his voice firm, like a CEO closing a deal. "Then the test is complete. We' ll see if Alyssa Dyer is worthy of being a Yates."

Alyssa Dyer. He hadn' t called me that in years. To him, to everyone in this life, I was Alyssa Smith.

The spaceship in its bright blue box suddenly felt like a ton of bricks in my hand. I stumbled back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound that was trying to claw its way out of my throat.

Seven years.

Seven years of my life, of my body breaking down, of my spirit being ground into dust. It wasn't for a cure. It was a test. A loyalty test. An elaborate, cruel game orchestrated by the man I loved, my best friend, and embraced by the son I had sacrificed everything for.

The pile of money I had accumulated, every last blood-soaked, tear-stained dollar, was not for a life-saving treatment. It was an entry fee into a family that was watching me like a lab rat in a cage.

My love wasn' t love to them. It was data. My sacrifice wasn' t a sacrifice. It was a performance.

I looked at the model spaceship in my hands. A gift for a boy who didn' t want me. A symbol of a future that was a lie.

My entire life was a lie.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. The laughter from inside the room, a happy little family scene, echoed in the sterile hallway. It was the sound of my heart breaking.

I turned and walked away, my steps wooden. I passed a large gray trash can by the elevators. Without hesitating, I lifted the lid and dropped the bright blue box inside. It landed with a hollow thud.

It' s over, I thought, the words a silent scream in my mind. Not the test. Us.

I am done.

---