Mara Chen's POV
The banker's face goes pale.
Not the polite, professional pale of someone delivering bad news. The scared pale of someone who's seen something catastrophically wrong and doesn't know how to say it.
Mara's stomach tightens.
"Ms. Chen," the banker says slowly, adjusting his glasses like that will somehow change what's on his computer screen. "Can you... can you verify this account number again?"
She does. The same number she's been using since her parents died eleven years ago. The same account that was supposed to have thirty million dollars today—her inheritance, finally unlocked on her twenty-sixth birthday.
"The balance shows zero," the banker whispers. "Completely empty."
The words don't land right. Empty. Like the account never existed. Like those numbers were never real.
Mara glances at her aunt Caroline sitting beside her, then at Uncle Robert on her other side. They're both very still. Too still. Like they've been holding their breath.
"That's impossible," Mara says, but her voice sounds far away. "Check again. There has to be a mistake."
The banker types furiously, clicking through screens. His jaw tightens with each one. "No mistake, Ms. Chen. The account was liquidated. All funds transferred out over the last..." He squints at the dates. "...eleven years. Consistent withdrawals, regular transfers. All with proper documentation."
Proper documentation.
Mara's brain moves like syrup.
"Your parents set up the account after the accident," Caroline says quietly. Her voice sounds rehearsed. "We were named as trustees until you turned twenty-six. We managed it for you. Invested it."
Invested. That word tastes like rust.
"Investments?" Mara repeats.
"Real estate," Robert adds quickly. "Market speculation. Some ventures didn't work out."
Mara turns to look at her uncle. Really look at him. His shirt is new—expensive material, the kind she used to buy without thinking. His watch gleams under the fluorescent lights.
A Rolex.
She's lived with her uncle for eleven years. She knows what he used to wear. Knockoffs. Outlet mall deals.
She looks at Caroline.
New rings. Diamonds catching light. A handbag she saw in a magazine last month—the kind that costs more than a used car.
The designer purse sits on Caroline's lap like a confession written in leather.
"You're lying," Mara says.
It comes out quiet. Almost not like a question.
Caroline's face flushes. Robert shifts uncomfortably.
"Mara—" Caroline reaches for her hand.
Mara pulls away.
"My parents died," she says flatly. "In that accident when I was fifteen. They died, and I was alone, and you took me in. And for eleven years, you've been stealing my money."
She doesn't say it like she's asking. She states it like fact. Like she's watching this happen to someone else.
The banker looks extremely uncomfortable. "Perhaps we should move to a private office—"
Mara stands. Her chair scrapes loud against marble. Customers turn. Tellers glance up. A security guard by the door watches.
Everyone is staring at the girl whose entire life just vanished.
"Let's go home," she tells them, her voice controlled and empty. "Let's talk about this at the house."
Caroline and Robert exchange that same loaded look from the moment the banker said "empty." That glance that says they've already planned everything.
"Of course," Caroline says softly. "Let's go home."
The house is empty.
Not messy-empty, with doors left open and belongings scattered. Sterile empty. Surgical empty. Like someone vacuumed the floors, wiped down the counters, and erased an entire family's life in one precise motion.
The living room is bare. No furniture. No photos on the walls—just pale rectangles where pictures used to hang. In the kitchen, the cabinets are hollow and open. Mara's childhood is gone. The photos of her parents. Her track trophies. Everything.
She stands in the doorway, her mind struggling to catch up.
"Where is everything?" she whispers.
"We liquidated the assets," Robert says from behind her. He's not even trying to sound sorry anymore. "The house, the furniture, your mother's jewelry. Everything converts to cash easily."
Mara turns slowly.
No guilt on his face. Just resignation. Like he's already accepted the consequences and decided they're worth it.
"We left you the car," Caroline adds, trying to sound reasonable. "And we opened a credit card in your name. You can use that to—"
"To what?" Mara's voice cracks. "To what, exactly?"
"We're leaving," Robert says simply. "Tonight. New identities, new country. The money is gone, Mara. It's spent, invested, and moved through channels the lawyers will take years to unravel."
He sounds almost proud.
Like he's solved a puzzle.
Mara's hands shake. "The company. My parents' pharmaceutical company—"
"Sold it," Robert interrupts. "Six months ago. Two hundred and eighty million. We took our percentage as executors."
The room tilts.
"You raised me," Mara says. "After Mom and Dad died, you took me in. You said you loved me."
Caroline's eyes are wet, but Mara doesn't believe the tears.
"Your mother always had everything," Caroline whispers. "The success, the house, everything. I was always second. When she died, I was finally—"
Her phone buzzes.
A bank alert. The credit card maxed out. Fifty thousand dollars charged in Chicago. Thirty thousand online. Not her. Them. They're taking everything, right until they vanish.
The lights cut out.
Not a power outage—the streetlights outside are still glowing. Someone deliberately cut the power to this house.
A car door slams outside. Multiple footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Professional.
"What is this?" Caroline whispers, backing toward the kitchen.
Robert's face goes white. The terrified white of someone who's made a catastrophic mistake.
"You said we'd have until morning," he says into the darkness, his voice cracking. "You said—"
The front door explodes inward.
Three masked figures pour through the opening, moving with military precision. Before Mara can scream, one grabs Robert by the collar and drags him toward the exit.
Caroline screams—a sound so raw and primal that Mara forgets, for one second, that this woman stole her life.
"Please!" Caroline is crying now. "We have the money! We can pay—"
But the figure dragging her doesn't seem interested in money.
Mara presses herself against the counter, barely breathing, watching her world collapse for the second time today.
The last thing she sees before the darkness swallows everything is the symbol on one figure's sleeve—a red rose, inked in crimson blood.
Then nothing.
Only darkness.