Anastasia tightened her grip on her phone, knuckles paling.
In an instant, memories of Benson and the Brennans crashed over her like a relentless tide.
After her mother died, the Brennan family had become the closest thing she had to family. Yet, under Nora’s manipulations and lies, Anastasia had convinced herself the Brennans were after the inheritance her mother left behind. She’d kept her guard up, pushing them away at every turn.
She remembered tossing their gifts straight into the trash, and when her grandfather tried to bring her to live with them, she’d screamed that Nora was her only family—breaking their hearts again and again.
Her uncle had dragged her back to the Brennans’ house, desperate to keep her away from Nora’s influence, but she had always found a way to run back, refusing any closeness with the Brennans. After enough of these scenes, the Brennans grew disappointed, then distant, the rift between them widening until it became something cold and irreparable.
Now, none of them wanted to see her.
Even Benson—her cousin who’d once sworn to protect her for life—had grown cold, almost hostile.
So when Benson actually reached out and asked to meet, Anastasia felt a flood of emotions she couldn’t quite control.
She didn’t hesitate long. Heart pounding, she changed her clothes quickly and set out.
Benson’s message had given her the name of a restaurant. On the drive over, her thoughts refused to settle.
Flashes of her previous life surfaced—how, after entering Rosewood Manor, she and Benson had never crossed paths again. She’d only caught glimpses of him on TV or online, watching him become a household name, a superstar everyone seemed to adore.
She saw how he pined after Penelope, chasing an impossible love, making a spectacle of himself. She saw how, in the end, he was framed, his reputation destroyed, cast out by his own company, his beloved career in ruins…
Sitting in the backseat, Anastasia lowered her gaze, eyes turning icy.
This time, she silently swore, she would never let her cousin’s tragedy repeat itself.
The car pulled to a stop.
Penelope spotted her and shrank back, face pale. “Ben, Anastasia’s here. I—I’m a little scared…”
Benson lifted his head, his handsome face hardening as he spotted Anastasia in the doorway, his gaze turning stormy.
“I’m right here. No one will hurt you,” he said, voice low but clear enough for Anastasia to hear.
Anastasia knew full well—that line wasn’t just for Penelope. It was a warning for her.
Her lips tightened. She shot Penelope, cowering behind Benson with feigned innocence, a cold look.
So Penelope wasted no time. Benson had barely set foot back in Fairhaven, and she was already playing the victim.
Anastasia drew a slow, steadying breath, forcing her emotions down. She stepped inside, meeting Benson’s eyes—so many years, and so many lifetimes, since they’d last stood face to face.
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