The next morning, a sliver of sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains, falling across Alea's face. She opened her eyes, instantly awake and alert. She rose from the bed and made her way from the dim hallway into the bright, cavernous dining room.

She pushed open the heavy oak doors, deliberately letting them groan on their hinges.

Every head at the long, polished table snapped in her direction.

Vicky was huddled against her mother, Sheryl, sobbing theatrically. Her wrist was wrapped in a thick, comically oversized bandage. Eugene sat at the head of the table, his face a thunderous mask as he stared at the Wall Street Journal. He saw Alea and slammed the paper down on the table.

The loud crack made Alea flinch. She froze in the doorway, her shoulders hunched, looking like a child who had been caught stealing.

"There she is!" Sheryl shrieked, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. "The ungrateful savage! After we took you in, you attack my daughter?"

Tears instantly filled Alea's eyes. She twisted the hem of her worn shirt in her hands. "I-I'm so sorry," she stammered, her voice thick with a country drawl. "I had a nightmare. I dreamt a bear was attacking me. I must have swung out in my sleep."

The lie was so ridiculous, so perfectly in character for a backwoods simpleton, that for a moment, it seemed plausible.

Eugene held up a hand, silencing his wife. His expression was cold steel. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an elegant, cream-colored envelope. The Beaumont family crest was embossed in gold on the flap. He tossed it onto the center of the table.

"The Beaumonts have lost their patience," Eugene said, his voice flat and final. "The wedding is this Friday."

Vicky let out a horrified wail. "No! I won't do it! I'd rather die than marry that... that animal! They say he bites the nurses!"

Sheryl immediately wrapped her arms around her daughter, cooing comforting words. Then, her gaze shifted to Alea, her eyes glinting with a venomous, calculating light. Her tone softened, becoming syrupy and persuasive.

She stood and walked over to Alea, taking her rough, calloused hand in her own soft, manicured one. "Alea, dear," she sighed, her face a mask of sorrow. "The family is on the brink of ruin. You're the only one who can save us."

Alea's stomach turned, but she let her face show only wide-eyed panic. She shook her head violently, pulling her hand away. "No... I can't. I'm not... I'm not good enough for a family like that."

Eugene rose from his chair. He was a tall man, and he used his height to loom over her, casting her in his shadow. The time for games was over.

"You will do this," he said, his voice a low growl. "Or I will have you committed. There's a state-run facility in Queens. You'll be locked in a padded room for the rest of your miserable life. No one will ever even know you existed."

The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Alea's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The performance of a lifetime. Her heart rate didn't change, but she made her breathing shallow and rapid, her pupils dilating with manufactured terror.

Sheryl saw her opening and moved in for the kill. "Your parents... they would have wanted you to help the family, Alea. They loved this family."

The mention of her parents sent a genuine spike of ice-cold rage through Alea's veins. She buried it instantly beneath a fresh wave of tears.

She stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth. She hit the doorframe and slid down to the floor, collapsing onto the plush rug in a heap of feigned despair.

"That's enough," Eugene said, his voice tinged with satisfaction. He retrieved his briefcase, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers and a gleaming Montblanc fountain pen. He crouched down and thrust them in front of Alea.

It was a contract. Dense with legal jargon.

Alea stared at the pages, her eyes blurry with tears, pretending not to understand a single word.

"Sign it," Eugene snapped, his patience wearing thin. He grabbed her hand, forced the heavy pen into her fingers, and pressed them to the signature line.

Alea bit her lower lip, hard enough to draw a tiny bead of blood. The coppery taste filled her mouth. "If... if I sign," she whispered, her voice broken, "you won't... you won't send me to the crazy house?"

"Of course not, darling," Sheryl cooed, kneeling beside her. "You'll be Mrs. Donny Beaumont. You'll live in a palace."

Alea closed her eyes, a final, shuddering sob escaping her lips. Then, with a hand that trembled violently, she scrawled a messy, almost illegible signature on the line.

Eugene snatched the contract away, his eyes scanning the signature. A look of triumphant, greedy relief spread across his face. Vicky stopped her fake crying, a smirk of pure malice directed at the pathetic heap on the floor.

Alea sat there, her head bowed, her tangled hair hiding her face.

In the shadows, where no one could see, her lips curved into a dangerous, razor-sharp smile.

The performance was over. It was time to collect her fee.