My parents always branded me as a “stupid child” because I was left-handed. They yelled, b;e;at me, and thr;eat;ened me until I was forced to use my right hand. When they finally had a right-handed daughter, they abandoned me—a 10-year-old girl. Years passed. I survived, rebuilt my life, and thought that chapter was over. But when my sister turned eighteen, they shamelessly showed up at my front door. What happened next shattered me completely.

Chapter 1: The Cursed Hand
The knuckles of my left hand always ache when the barometric pressure drops, a dull, thrumming reminder of a childhood spent in a state of siege. I sat in my office at St. Jude’s Memorial, the city lights shimmering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and massaged the joint of my ring finger.

To the world, I am Dr. Maya Sterling, the Chief of Thoracic Surgery. I am the woman with the “miracle hands.” Patients travel across continents to have my left hand—steady as a mountain, precise as a laser—navigate the delicate topography of their hearts.

But to Silas and Elena Vance, I was never a doctor. I was a defect.

The memory hit me, unbidden and sharp: I was six years old, sitting at the mahogany dining table. I had reached for my glass of milk with my left hand.

Whack.

The heavy wooden ruler struck my knuckles with the precision of a guillotine.