Last Revenge

My stepbrother, Booker Harvey, saved me from a life of abuse. He was my protector, my teacher, and my first love. For two years, our small apartment was a sun-drenched dream.

Then he went on a business trip. I called him, pregnant with our child, only for another woman to answer his phone.

He hung up on me. Later, his stepmother put him on speakerphone so I could hear him laugh off our entire relationship.

"Tell her it was just for fun," he said. "She shouldn't take it so seriously."

Just for fun. The words shattered me. I got rid of our son, took the hush money, and vanished.

The girl who loved him died that day. In her place, I became "Nine," a ruthless operative forged in betrayal.

Now, five years later, an explosion has left me with "amnesia." When the police ask who will be my guardian, I point to the man who broke my world.

"Him," I say with a shy smile. "He's the most handsome."

Chapter 1

Jane Bradley POV:

My father told me I was born with a heart of stone, but stones don' t break. Mine did. It shattered into a million pieces the day my mother chose my crying sister over her silent daughter.

The fighting always started after I was in bed. Or, at least, after they thought I was. The sound of my father's heavy footsteps on the wooden floor was the first warning. Then came the clink of a glass, the slosh of whiskey, and finally, my mother' s voice, tight as a wire.

"Johnston, not again."

"A man's entitled to a drink in his own home, Jannie."

I would press my ear to the thin wall, my small body rigid under the covers. Their words were a venomous tide, rising and falling, sometimes murmurs, sometimes shouts that rattled the cheap prints on my bedroom wall.

I learned early on that sound was a weapon. Crying was a shield. Silence was a crime.

I tried crying once. When I was five, my father slapped my mother, the sound a sharp crack in the already tense air. I let out a wail, a genuine cry of terror that scraped my throat raw.

My father turned on me, his face a thundercloud. "What are you crying for? This has nothing to do with you. Go to your room."

My mother, her cheek already turning red, didn't look at me. She just said, "Stop that noise, Jane. You're giving me a headache."

So I learned to be quiet. I learned to be invisible. I would sit on the stairs, a small ghost in pajamas, and watch them tear each other apart. My silence was my sanctuary, but they saw it as apathy.

"Look at her," my mother would hiss, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She doesn't even care. Cold, just like you."

Then Kallie was born.

Kallie came into the world screaming, and she rarely stopped. But her screams were different from mine. Her cries brought my parents running. Her tears were kissed away. Her sobs were met with cooing and rocking and promises of a better world.

She was a perfect, pink, noisy little creature, and they adored her for it. She was everything I wasn't.

One night, the shouting reached a new peak. The sound of shattering glass made me jump. I found Kallie in her crib, her face red, her mouth a perfect 'O' of distress. I watched her, mesmerized. She had a power I could never possess. With a single, sustained shriek, she could stop the war downstairs.

And she did.

The door flew open. My mother rushed in, scooping Kallie into her arms. "Oh, my sweet baby, did the scary noises frighten you? It's okay, Mommy's here."

My father appeared in the doorway behind her. "See, Jannie? We're upsetting the baby."

They looked at each other over Kallie's hiccupping form, a fragile truce declared. Neither of them saw me, standing in the corner, a silent statue of a girl.

The divorce was inevitable. It came when I was seven. The final argument wasn't even a shout. It was a cold, quiet conversation in the kitchen while I pretended to do my homework at the table.

"I'm taking Kallie," my mother said, her voice flat.