Part 1Champagne for My Execution

After I took the fall for the fake heiress and was sent to prison.

The guards forced me to kneel on shattered glass to repent, made me drink from the toilet, and seared my back with cigarette butts until it was a tapestry of scars.

I endured a thousand days and nights of this hell, finally making it to my execution day.

The cold, dark barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head. Through a one-way mirror, I could see my family in the observation room, popping champagne to celebrate.

My third brother, Kian, pointed at the monitor and roared with laughter.

“Look at the way the little fool is shaking! She actually thinks she’s about to be executed for murder.”

“Hiring a few actors to dress up in uniforms was a brilliant idea. We’ve scared the pride right out of the 'true' heiress.”

“That’s what she gets for making our little princess cry. This ‘private prison’ is her own personal playground, built just for her.”

The gun fired a blank. The sound ripped through me, tearing my sanity to shreds.

Just as they were about to come in and enjoy the sight of my humiliating breakdown, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind:

Host, have you had enough of this so-called family? Teleportation countdown initiated. Let them weep over a corpse.

…

I was strapped into the execution chair.

Cold metal clamps bit into my wrists and ankles, digging into flesh that was already raw and infected.

A hard, cold cylinder pressed against the base of my skull.

The muzzle of a gun.

Behind me, the crisp click of the bolt being pulled back sounded like the Grim Reaper knocking at my door.

My body trembled uncontrollably. I bit my lip until it was a mangled mess, the coppery taste of blood flooding my mouth.

Is this how it ends?

I had spent a thousand days in this lightless “death row.”

Three whole years. Three years it took me to go from screaming my innocence to silently begging for scraps of food.

“Rhea Blackwood, I’ll ask you one last time. Do you confess to your crime?”

The executioner’s voice was distorted by a modulator, sounding like harsh, electronic static.

I managed to pull my lips into a pained grimace, my voice as raspy as a broken accordion.

“I… confess.”

What else could I do?

If I didn’t confess, dinner tonight would be a bowl of rancid slop mixed with porcelain shards.

If I didn’t confess, I’d be dragged to the water cell to soak in freezing, filthy water for twenty-four hours.

If I didn’t confess, the barbed whip would fall on my back again, a back that had never had a chance to heal.

I was terrified.

The pain had broken me.

“Very good.”

The executioner seemed pleased with my submission.

But something felt wrong.

The wall directly in front of me suddenly became transparent.

It was a massive one-way mirror, now electrified to reveal the scene behind it.

The bright lights made me squint.

Once my eyes adjusted, I saw them.

My family.

My eldest brother, Wyatt, swirled a glass of amber liquid, a mocking smile on his lips.

My third brother, Kian, was clutching his stomach, laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face.

And there, in the center of their adoring circle, was the fake heiress, Corinne.

She wore an expensive designer gown, looking like a pure, innocent angel as she snuggled into our mother’s arms.

There was no jury.

No victim’s family.

Only my biological parents and brothers, watching me as if I were a clown in a circus act.

I froze.

Even with a mind dulled by years of torment, I knew something was terribly wrong.

This was no official execution chamber.