The city skyline glittered under the evening rain, neon lights reflecting off wet asphalt. Inside a luxurious penthouse on the 23rd floor, Casandra sat in front of a vanity mirror, her red lips curved into a faint, smug smile.

On the surface, she looked calm — elegant even — but the tremor in her fingers betrayed the storm inside her.

Her phone vibrated.

“Speak,” she said coldly.

A deep male voice answered, “You were right. She’s alive.”

Casandra froze. “Who?”

“Rosemary Lane.”

For a moment, the world tilted. The glass of wine in her hand slipped, crashing to the marble floor. “That’s impossible. She’s dead. I saw the accident report...