investors.
"Amira," Maya said, without even turning her head. "Smile. You're representing the Blackwoods."
Amira smiled.
But inside, something screamed.
Meanwhile, Althea Bishop—now gray-haired and retired—sat at her kitchen table with a worn leather journal before her. Her hands shook as she opened to the first page.
"The switch was made at 2:14 AM. October 5th. I never forgave myself."
She turned to the next page.
"I tried to undo it. But it was too late. The Blackwoods were untouchable. And the girl… she grew up poor, never knowing the life stolen from her."
Her doorbell rang.
She stood, her cane tapping against the floor.
At the door stood a man in a suit.
"You've kept quiet a long time, Nurse Bishop," he said.
She didn't answer.
"Some truths are better left buried."
He handed her a white envelope and walked away.
Inside was a single note: "Burn the journal. Or we will."
She stared at the fire crackling in her hearth. Her hands trembled as she held the journal.
But she didn't move.
Not yet.
At NYU's freshman orientation two weeks later, two girls unknowingly passed each other in the corridor of the business building.
Amira, with her designer heels and composed poise, glanced at the scholarship board.
Leona, with her thrift-store backpack and confident stride, walked past the door Amira was about to enter.
Their shoulders brushed.
A pause.
They both looked back for a moment.
Neither recognized the piece of themselves walking away.
And somewhere in the shadows of New York, someone else watched the two girls begin the dance of fate.
The past wasn't done with them.
Not by a long shot.