Chapter 1

But this choice will not be made of her own free will: it is the Scales of Judgment, the Scales which presides over destinies, that will choose for her according to the purity of her heart. This new life will not be easy for the young girl; between new friendships, accepting her new reality, lies, betrayals, and the constant rivalry between Angels and Demons, Muzelina's world will be turned completely upside down. Especially since she will have to navigate the unfamiliar feeling of love that awakened within her the moment she met the gaze of a handsome and mysterious young man named Arden...

The alarm clock rang next to me.

I reach out and press the loud alarm to turn it off. I sit up in bed, yawn, and stretch. Swinging my legs over the edge, I stand up and pull back the curtains. The soft rays of the sun illuminate my room, and I take the opportunity to open the window and let in the fresh, crisp air of a morning that promises a beautiful, sunny day.

My name is Muzelina MacGregor, and I am seventeen years old. I live with my parents and my two brothers in New York, not far from Central Park.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

"Sweetheart!" my mother calls out. "The shower is free!"

"I'm on my way!" I exclaim as I open my door.

I step out, close the door behind me, and head downstairs toward the bathroom. On the way, I run into my brother, Noah. He is shirtless, with a white towel tied around his waist.

"Nice welcome, Mr. Exhibitionist!" I laugh.

"Hello to you too, Muza!" he quips.

As I walk past him toward the bathroom, I hear him call out:

"Muza!"

I turn around.

"You have a nasty stain on your pajama bottoms," he tells me.

I react instantly, twisting around to check my back. After contorting myself for at least five seconds, I hear him burst out laughing—obviously, it was just a joke.

"You're really not funny!"

"You should have seen your face!" he scoffs.

In response, I simply roll my eyes.

"Oh, come on," he adds, "little accidents happen to everyone. Sometimes, it's okay to be imperfect."

"When are you going to stop with this stupid idea?" I sigh. "I am not obsessed with being perfect!"

"Sure! You only have to look at the state you just got yourself into to prove it."

I roll my eyes again, turn on my heel, and decide to ignore him, letting him off the hook... for now.

It took him less than five minutes.

It only takes less than five minutes for Noah to completely exhaust me. My brother is an expert in the art of teasing; he always presses right where it hurts and loves admiring the results, especially when he makes someone feel uncomfortable. With him, communication consists solely of conflict, and quite frankly, I think I've outgrown this kind of childishness.

Arriving in front of the bathroom, I push the door open and step inside. I stand before the mirror, taking in my reflection: a face marked by the unmistakable shadows of fatigue.

I am not very tall for my age—rather average, in fact. I have hazel eyes, prominent dark circles, and long chestnut hair sprinkled with blonde and red highlights. In short, my physique is quite ordinary. Many people tell me I have a lovely face, but that's about it. Beyond my facial features, I don't possess many striking attributes. I am not particularly athletic, nor do I have voluptuous curves around my hips, thighs, or chest. I am no Beyoncé, and I certainly don't fit the unrealistic beauty standards imposed by society!

I am simply myself: an ordinary girl with an ordinary body and no grand illusions.

I take a deep sigh, pick up my toothbrush, apply some toothpaste, and calmly begin brushing.

My friends and my mother keep telling me that if I just put a little more effort into my appearance, I'd be irresistible.

But do I really need to be?

And if so, for whom? For myself? For the male gaze?

That sounds like far too much effort for very little reward!

Boys, couples, and relationships are not my priority right now. True, I'm seventeen, but my focus is entirely on my final-year exams and choosing the right university for my higher education, rather than wasting time on teenage romantic clichés.

A few minutes later, after rinsing my mouth, I undress and step into the shower. I adjust the water temperature and let the warm streams cascade over my skin.

It is April, and there are only two months left until graduation.

Being in my final year of high school, the stress is gradually mounting. The decisions I make in these coming months will be crucial, and I have zero room for error!

My ultimate wish is simply to make my parents proud—especially my father.

I close my eyes for a moment, granting myself a few minutes of absolute tranquility beneath the steaming water. For a brief while, I forget everything: the exam stress, my brother's annoying teasing, my academic future, and my ongoing search for my father's approval.

Fifteen minutes later, I turn off the water. I wrap myself in a towel, dry off in record time, hurry back to my bedroom to change, and then rush downstairs toward the living room.

Our New York apartment is a duplex. Upstairs are the bedrooms, a bathroom, and a toilet. Downstairs are the living room, my father's office (which is locked three-quarters of the time), our large dining room, and the kitchen. Right next to my father's office is a cozy library space where I spent most of my childhood sitting on the floor, my nose buried in a book. The interior decoration was entirely my mother's doing; she chose every piece of furniture and every color, transforming an empty luxury apartment into a warm, inviting home.

My eyes wander over the paintings and picture frames hanging on the walls, but two of them instantly catch my attention. They contain framed newspaper clippings from the front page of The New York Times, featuring my mother, Noah, and me. These photos were taken at St. John's Hospital in Wyoming, the state we lived in before moving to New York.

The article, written eighteen years ago, recounts an extraordinary event involving Noah, my mother, and me. To explain: Noah and I are actually twins. We were conceived on the same day from two different cells, sharing the same womb. So far, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the funny fact that we were born more than a month apart! Naturally, a phenomenon this significant deserved the front page of one of the country's most popular newspapers.

During her pregnancy, my mother suffered from twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome, meaning one fetus received significantly less blood supply than the other, putting both in severe cardiac danger. Everything possible was done to save us and protect my mother's health, as she was quite young at the time. Following several successful medical interventions, Noah was born first and prematurely in February, while I remained safely in the womb for the full nine months, arriving in April.

My eyes continue scanning the article, lingering on words like "extraordinary," "phenomenal," and the prominent headline: The Miracle Twins of Wyoming.