My Mate Bought My Cure for Her

The taxi pulled up to the familiar wrought-iron gates of my parents' Bellevue estate, and I felt my chest tighten—though whether from the accelerant coursing through my veins or the sight of home, I couldn't tell. The sprawling Tudor mansion looked exactly as it had when I was a child, all manicured hedges and pristine stonework, but now it felt like a mausoleum of everything I'd lost.

I paid the driver and walked up the cobblestone path, my heels clicking against the stones in a rhythm that matched my steadying heartbeat. Through the massive bay windows, I could see the living room's warm golden glow, and the scene inside made my steps falter.

Mira was sprawled across the cream leather sofa like a Renaissance painting, her honey-blonde hair cascading over the armrest as she watched something on the enormous flat screen. My mother, Victoria, sat perched on the sofa's edge, her perfectly manicured fingers working gentle circles into Mira's shoulders. And there was my father, Robert, sitting in his favorite wingback chair, methodically peeling grapes and placing them in a crystal bowl beside Mira's elbow.

It was such a picture of domestic bliss, so tender and familial, that for a moment I forgot I was looking at my own family. When had they ever gathered around me like that? When had my mother ever massaged away my stress, or my father ever peeled fruit for me with such careful attention?

I pushed open the front door—they never locked it during the day, a luxury of living in one of Seattle's most exclusive neighborhoods. The sound of my entrance cut through their comfortable chatter like a blade through silk.

Three heads turned toward me in perfect synchronization, and I watched their expressions shift like a time-lapse of a flower wilting. Mira's dreamy smile vanished first, replaced by something wary and calculating. My mother's hands stilled on Mira's shoulders, her face hardening into the familiar mask of disappointment I'd grown so accustomed to seeing. My father's gentle expression closed off entirely, his jaw setting in that way that meant he was bracing for conflict.

"What are you doing here?" Victoria's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as winter wind. She didn't bother standing, didn't offer the basic courtesy of a greeting. "I hope you've come to apologize to Mira for what happened last time."

The accusation hung in the air between us. Last time. When I'd found Mira in my home office, my carefully organized design sketches scattered across the floor, some of them cut into ribbons with my fabric scissors. She'd claimed it was an accident, that she'd been "trying to help organize" and had "accidentally" knocked over my portfolio. But I'd seen the precision of those cuts, the deliberate destruction of months of work.

When I'd confronted her, she'd burst into tears, running to my parents with stories of how cruel and accusatory I'd been. How I'd "screamed" at her and made her feel "unwelcome and unloved." By the time my parents finished lecturing me about family loyalty and giving Mira the benefit of the doubt, I'd almost started believing I was the villain in the story.

But I hadn't come here to relitigate old wounds. I'd come to end this, once and for all.

"I'm not here to argue," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I came to make an announcement."

I reached into my purse and pulled out the leather portfolio I'd prepared that morning. Legal documents, all properly notarized and witnessed, transferring complete ownership of Wynter Rose to Mira Blackwood. Every share, every asset, every trademark I'd built from nothing.

Mira's eyes widened slightly, though she tried to hide her interest behind a mask of confusion. "Scarlett, what—"

"I'm giving you the company," I said simply, setting the portfolio on the coffee table between us. "All of it. Wynter Rose is yours now."

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway, counting down the seconds until my family processed what I'd just said. Victoria's mouth fell open slightly, her perfectly applied lipstick suddenly looking garish against her pale skin. Robert leaned forward in his chair, his forgotten grape rolling off his palm onto the Persian rug.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Victoria asked, but her voice lacked its usual bite. There was something almost hungry in her expression now, the way she looked between me and the documents.

Robert cleared his throat, his businessman instincts kicking in. "Scarlett, sweetheart, what's the catch? What do you want in return?"

I almost laughed at the question. What did I want? I wanted my family to love me without conditions. I wanted my mate to choose me over my stepsister. I wanted my son to run to me with scraped knees instead of to Aunt Mira. I wanted to live past next week.

But none of those things were for sale.

"No catch," I said, pulling out a pen. "No conditions. It's a gift."

Mira sat up straighter on the sofa, her performance of confusion slipping slightly. I caught the flash of triumph in her eyes before she quickly lowered her lashes. "Scarlett, I don't understand. Why would you—"

"Because you're better suited for it," I said, signing my name with careful precision on the transfer documents. "You studied fashion management. You have fresh ideas. And most importantly, you have everyone's support."

The words tasted like poison, but they weren't untrue. For months, I'd listened to my family praise Mira's "vision" for the company, her "innovative" suggestions that were often just rehashed versions of trends I'd dismissed years ago. I'd watched them nod along as she criticized my "outdated" business model and "rigid" creative process.

Victoria's entire demeanor shifted as I signed the final document. The coldness melted from her face, replaced by something that might have been maternal warmth if I squinted hard enough. She stood up from the sofa and moved toward me, her movements suddenly graceful and welcoming.

"Oh, Scarlett," she breathed, reaching out to take my hands in hers. The touch was foreign—when was the last time my mother had voluntarily touched me? "You've finally come to your senses. This is what's best for everyone."

Her hands were warm and soft, and for a moment, I let myself imagine this was real affection instead of relief at getting what she'd wanted all along. "Mira has such a gift for understanding people," Victoria continued, her voice gentle in a way I hadn't heard since childhood. "She'll make the company more accessible, more relatable. You were always too... intense for the fashion world."

Too intense. There it was again, that familiar refrain. My passion was intensity. My dedication was obsession. My success was somehow evidence of my failure as a woman.

"You're right," I said, and meant it in ways she'd never understand. "Mira will be perfect."

Robert had moved to examine the documents, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he scanned the legal language. "This is... comprehensive," he said, sounding almost impressed. "You've thought of everything."

Of course I had. I'd spent the morning with my lawyers, ensuring every detail was airtight. No loopholes, no way to contest the transfer later. By the time anyone realized what had really happened, it would be far too late to undo.

Mira finally stood up from the sofa, moving with that fluid grace that had always made me feel clumsy by comparison. She approached the coffee table slowly, as if the documents might bite her, but I could see the excitement thrumming beneath her careful composure.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered, but her hands were already reaching for the pen I'd set down. "This is so generous of you, Scarlett. So... unexpected."

She signed her name with a flourish, her handwriting all loops and curves where mine was sharp and efficient. Even our signatures told the story of who we were—or who everyone believed we were.

As she finished the last document, Victoria clapped her hands together like a delighted child. "We should celebrate! Robert, open that bottle of champagne we've been saving. This calls for a toast."

A toast. To my own corporate funeral, apparently.

"That's very kind," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "but I should get going. Killian is expecting me home."

It wasn't entirely true—Killian was expecting me to help Mira alter my dress, but he wasn't expecting me specifically. He probably wouldn't even notice if I sent a seamstress in my place.

I gathered my purse and moved toward the door, feeling lighter with each step. Behind me, I could hear my family's excited chatter, their voices bright with possibility and relief. They were already planning Mira's future, discussing marketing strategies and brand repositioning as if I'd never existed.

At the front door, I paused and looked back one last time. Mira was bent over the documents, adding her signature to the final page, her face glowing with satisfaction. But as I watched, she looked up and caught my eye across the room.

For just a moment, her mask slipped completely. The gratitude, the surprise, the humble confusion—all of it fell away, leaving behind something cold and victorious. She mouthed two words at me, her lips moving in exaggerated slowness so there could be no mistake:

*Thank you, loser.*

I didn't react, didn't give her the satisfaction of knowing her words had landed. Instead, I simply turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind me.

The moment the latch clicked into place, a searing pain exploded through my chest like lightning. I gasped and stumbled, my hand flying to my heart as I doubled over on the front steps. The accelerant was working faster than Dr. Chen had predicted, or maybe the emotional toll was speeding up the process.

I pressed my back against the door, breathing hard as the pain slowly subsided to a manageable ache. Through the thick wood, I could hear champagne corks popping and laughter echoing through the halls of my childhood home.

Seventy-one hours left.

I pulled out my phone and called another taxi, my fingers surprisingly steady as I dialed. As I waited for the car to arrive, I looked up at the house one last time, memorizing the way the late afternoon light caught the diamond-paned windows.

I'd given them everything they'd ever wanted from me. Now I just had to survive long enough to give the rest of it away.