After the fire, everyone said Chloe was gone. They said I was “drowning in grief,” losing my mind. Vanessa and Colby—the people I trusted—brought pills, tea, and staged concern while secretly manipulating me.
Then I saw her. Chloe. Dirt-streaked, thin, alive. She told me the truth: the fire, the service, my grief—it had all been a lie. Vanessa and Colby faked her death to take over my life and company.
We played along. I pretended to crumble, while secretly collecting evidence with Chloe and a trusted ally. Lab reports, recordings, witness statements—all of it exposed their plot.
At the staged reading of my will, I walked in alive, with Chloe. The room gasped. Detectives moved in. Vanessa and Colby were arrested.
Months later, Chloe and I left Burlington, moving to a quiet coastal town. We dropped our lockets into the sea—letting go of the past. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
We survived. We were free.
