I was ten the night my world ended.
It began with laughter loud, warm, and full of lies. My parents were hosting a dinner party, like they always did when big money was involved. The living room sparkled under the glow of our chandelier, glasses clinked, and soft jazz floated through the air. Everyone was dressed in their finest. Eight of them. My parents' so called "best friends." I called them aunties and uncles. Trusted them. Loved them.
That night, they smiled too hard. Laughed too long. Their eyes didn't match their mouths.
I should've been asleep. I was supposed to be in bed hours earlier, tucked under silk sheets, dreaming about horses or fairy tales. But something felt... off. So I crept down the staircase, quiet as a shadow, and hid behind the wooden banister where I could see everything but not be seen.
My mother's laughter rang through the hall like a song. She was radiant, her dark hair pinned in curls, her eyes glowing with pride. My father stood beside her, his hand around her waist, his smile wide and unguarded. I didn't know it was the last time I'd ever see them alive.
"Tonight changes everything," Uncle Desmond said, raising his glass.
My father laughed, lowering his wine. "What does that mean?"
Then the room went still. Silent. Tense.
Uncle Marcus stepped forward. His voice was cold. "It means it's over, Mark."
Before my father could react, the first shot echoed through the room.
It was loud. Sharp. Final.
One second my father was standing—alive, breathing. The next, he was crumpled on the floor, a gaping red hole in his forehead. His blood ran toward the carpet like it was in a hurry.
I couldn't move. Couldn't blink. My breath caught in my throat like it didn't want to be heard.
My mother screamed. I remember how it ripped from her like something primal. But there were eight of them, and they all had guns.
They didn't even hesitate.
Eight bullets. Eight betrayers. One woman. My mother collapsed beside my father, eyes still open—glassy, confused, afraid.
I didn't realize I was crying until I tasted salt on my lips.
Then something worse happened.
Someone looked toward the staircase.
"Was that... movement?" Uncle Marcus said.
I turned to run, but the floorboard betrayed me with a creak.
A shot rang out.
The pain hit me like lightning, tearing through my left shoulder and spinning me into the glass display table. Everything shattered wood, glass, bone, breath. I remember the blood. So much blood.
I thought I was dying.
I wanted to.
But then arms. Soft but strong. Lifting me out of the wreckage. A whisper in my ear.
"I've got you, little one."
And then darkness.
When I woke, I was in a strange bed. My body felt like it had been ripped apart and stitched back together by trembling hands. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air. My shoulder burned.
I blinked, and a woman leaned over me.
She had green eyes like broken jade. Her face was sharp, unreadable. Her presence... terrifying.
"You're safe now," she said. "They won't find you. Ever."
"Who are you?" I rasped.
"I'm Genevieve," she said. "Your godmother."
I stared at her. My mother had never spoken of a godmother. But Genevieve knew things only someone close could. She was real and dangerous.
And she told me the truth.
About the betrayal. About the eight who murdered my parents for money. About how I was supposed to die that night too an innocent loose end.
"They planned it all," she said. "Even your death."
"But I didn't die."
"No," she whispered, brushing the hair from my eyes. "You survived. And that changes everything."
I didn't speak for a long time. Then, through a voice like broken glass, I said, "I want to kill them."
She didn't flinch. She didn't scold me.
Instead, she nodded.
"Then you'll need a new name."
"What?"
"You died that night, Ayla Everett," Genevieve said. "If you want to avenge your parents, you must become someone else."
She chose the name carefully, like it meant something.
"Ava Monroe," she said. "From now on, that's who you are. And one day, they'll never see you coming."
That was the day the world forgot Ayla Everett.
But I didn't.
And I never will.