My Sister Stole the Wrong Billionaire

The last thing I remembered was his hands around my throat.

Not gentle. Not quick. He squeezed like he had all the time in the world, and I guess he did, because nobody was coming to save me.

Then — nothing.

Then — fluorescent lights buzzing above me, the smell of floor wax and boiled carrots, and a woman's voice calling a name I hadn't heard in fifteen years.

"Carmen? Carmen, honey, stand up straight."

My eyes snapped open.

The orphanage hall stretched out in front of me, long and narrow, with its peeling green walls and the row of metal folding chairs where the "presentable" young adults sat on sponsorship days. I was standing in line. My shoes were too small. My dress had a stain on the collar that I'd tried to scrub out with hand soap that morning.

I knew this day.

I knew it the way you know a scar — by touch, by memory, by the dull ache that never fully leaves.

This was the day the Morans came.

My hands were shaking. I looked down at them — thin, bony, eighteen years old. The phantom pressure around my throat pulsed once, twice, then faded like a bruise pressed too hard.

I was back.

"Carmen, stop fidgeting," Sister June hissed from behind me.

I couldn't answer her. My tongue felt thick. My lungs burned with air that tasted too clean, too real.

Three seats to my left, Hazel was already moving.

She had spotted Brad Moss the second he walked through the door — tall, sandy-haired, early thirties, with a smile that made every woman in the room soften. He wore a navy blazer and carried a gift bag with a stuffed rabbit poking out the top. The perfect picture of a kind, wealthy man looking to sponsor a ward and change a young life.

Hazel smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks for color, and intercepted him before he'd taken five steps.

"Hi! I'm Hazel. Are you here to sponsor someone? I have top grades in all my classes. Do you want to see my transcripts?"

Her voice was syrup. Bright, sweet, calculated.

Brad laughed — warm, easy. "Well, aren't you something."

Behind him, almost invisible in his shadow, stood a woman in a dove-gray coat. Eleanor Moran. She watched Hazel with a quiet, measuring expression, her gloved hands folded over a small clutch purse.

Nobody noticed Eleanor. That was the trick of Brad Moss — he filled every room he entered, and the people beside him disappeared.

But I noticed her. This time, I noticed everything.

Hazel tugged Brad's sleeve. "Are you taking a ward? I've always wanted a real benefactor. A real family."

Eleanor's mouth thinned.

"Hazel," Sister June called out, a warning in her tone. "Mr. Moss and Mrs. Moran are here together. Don't be rude."

Hazel didn't even glance at Eleanor. She kept her eyes locked on Brad, her fingers curled around his wrist like she'd already claimed him.

"I changed