Christabel forced her swollen eyes open.

Blood dripped from her forehead, blurring her vision. The heavy stench of rust and decay filled the abandoned medical facility, making her stomach churn.

Through the red haze, she saw Hilary.

Her cousin stood there in a pristine white Chanel haute couture suit. The crisp fabric was a stark contrast to the grime and blood covering the concrete floor.

Christabel's heart contracted violently. The pure hatred burning in her chest made it hard to breathe.

Hilary took a step forward. The sharp heel of her stiletto pressed directly onto Christabel's broken fingers.

A muffled groan tore from Christabel's throat. The pain shot up her arm like a bolt of electricity. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper, refusing to give Hilary the satisfaction of a scream.

Hilary leaned down. Her perfume, sickeningly sweet, invaded Christabel's nose.

"Derrick is dead," Hilary whispered, her voice dripping with fake pity. "His plane went down an hour ago. No survivors."

Christabel's pupils dilated. Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room vanished.

Hilary laughed. She threw a stack of newspapers directly at Christabel's face.

The sharp edge of the thick paper sliced across Christabel's cheek. A fresh line of heat and pain bloomed on her skin.

The bold headlines screamed about the Sanders family's bankruptcy and liquidation.

Christabel commanded her arms to move. She wanted to tear the papers. She wanted to wrap her hands around Hilary's throat.

But her limbs were dead weight. Her muscles refused to twitch. A wave of absolute, crushing helplessness drowned her.

Hilary sneered. She turned on her heel and walked away.

The heavy, rusted iron door slammed shut. The booming sound echoed in the empty room, sealing Christabel in complete darkness.

Christabel closed her eyes. The faces of her parents and her brother flashed in her mind. They died trying to protect her.

A single tear mixed with blood slid down her cheek.

Her breathing grew shallow. Her heartbeat slowed to a crawl. In the final second before her consciousness faded, a silent, vicious curse echoed in her mind.

Then, a violent sensation of falling ripped through her.

Christabel gasped loudly. Her eyes snapped open.

Blinding light from a vintage crystal chandelier stabbed her eyes. She instinctively raised her hand to block the glare.

She froze.

Her hand moved. Her fingers were whole. No broken bones. No blood.

She felt the smooth, cool touch of silk bedsheets beneath her fingertips. The texture was so real it sent a violent shiver down her spine.

Suddenly, an unnatural, burning heat flared in her lower abdomen. It rushed through her veins like liquid fire.

Christabel's breathing turned ragged. A layer of cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

She forced herself to sit up. She looked around the massive room. The velvet curtains, the gold-accented furniture.

This was the presidential suite at the Grand Hotel on the Upper East Side.

The memories hit her like a physical blow to the chest.

She was eighteen. This was the night Hilary tricked her into coming here. The night she was drugged. The night Jaylon brought reporters to catch her in bed with a stranger, destroying her reputation forever.

The hatred swallowed the drug-induced haze.

Christabel dug her fingernails deep into her thigh. The sharp pain cleared her mind for a fraction of a second.

She stumbled off the bed. Her legs felt like jelly. She practically crawled into the marble bathroom.

She turned the cold water on full blast. She scooped the freezing water and splashed it onto her face, over and over again, trying to drown the fire in her blood.

She gripped the edges of the sink and looked in the mirror.

The girl staring back had flawless skin. No scars. No blood.

A chilling smile stretched across Christabel's face. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The biting cold temporarily suppressed the unnatural heat in her veins. She pinched her own arm ruthlessly, using the sharp sting to force her trembling, jelly-like legs to stand straight. Relying on sheer willpower, she dragged her heavy body forward.

She took a deep breath, fighting the heavy panting of her lungs. She walked out of the bathroom.

Her eyes locked onto the half-empty glass of champagne sitting on the nightstand.

A soft click came from the hallway.

Christabel's muscles tensed. She quickly backed into the heavy shadows behind the door, holding her breath.

The electronic lock beeped. The door handle slowly pressed down.

A man wearing a baseball cap slipped into the room. He held a professional camera with a massive flash attachment.

Christabel recognized him instantly. Gary. The tabloid reporter Jaylon hired.

Her eyes turned dead and cold. She reached out and grabbed the heavy brass statue sitting on the console table next to the door.

Gary raised his camera, aiming it at the large bed. He frowned when he saw the tangled sheets but no girl.

He took two steps forward.

Christabel stepped out from the shadows. She raised the brass statue high above her head.

With brutal precision, she brought it down hard against the back of his neck.

Gary didn't even make a sound. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed onto the thick carpet like a sack of rocks. The camera hit the floor with a dull thud.

Christabel kicked his leg away with a cold stare. She bent down, grabbed the camera, and popped the memory card out. She shoved it into the hidden pocket of her dress.

The drug surged again.

Her knees buckled. She slammed her hand against the wall to keep from falling. Her fingernails scraped against the expensive wallpaper.

She knew Jaylon would come up soon to check on the situation. She didn't have much time.

She grabbed Gary by the collar of his jacket. Gritting her teeth against the weakness in her limbs, she dragged his heavy body into the massive walk-in closet.

She pulled off his leather belt and strapped his wrists and ankles together. She ripped his tie off and shoved it deep into his mouth.

She closed the closet door.

Christabel walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. She pulled the heavy drapes back just an inch. The street below was clear. No paparazzi yet.

She turned and walked toward the suite's private bar.

She pulled a sealed bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. She was going to make Jaylon a special drink.

Heavy, rushed footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

Christabel heard Jaylon's hushed, eager voice through the thick wood of the door.

The curtain on her revenge was rising.

Christabel poured a generous amount of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. She grabbed the half-empty glass of spiked champagne from the nightstand and dumped it into the whiskey.

She swirled the glass. The liquids merged into a dark amber.

The electronic lock beeped.

Christabel immediately dropped onto the plush sofa. She let her head loll back against the cushions. She forced her breathing to turn shallow and erratic, letting the drug's flush take over her face.

The door pushed open.

Jaylon walked in wearing a custom-tailored suit. He looked around the room. When his eyes landed on Christabel sprawled on the sofa, a nasty, triumphant smirk twisted his lips.

He frowned slightly, glancing around for Gary, but the sight of Christabel's flushed skin pulled his attention back instantly.

He walked over and stood over her.

"Look at you," Jaylon mocked. He reached out to grab her chin.

Bile rose in Christabel's throat. She turned her head sharply, dodging his hand.

She let out a weak, breathy pant. Her hand trembled as she lifted the crystal tumbler toward him.

"Please," Christabel rasped. Her voice was perfectly hoarse. "Drink this... and let me go."

She forced a look of absolute terror into her eyes.

Jaylon laughed. He looked at her like she was a pathetic bug. He wanted to show off his victory. He wanted to prove he was in control.

He snatched the glass from her trembling fingers and downed it in one gulp.

The strong whiskey burned his throat. Jaylon coughed violently. He raised his arm to smash the empty glass onto the coffee table.

Before the glass left his hand, a massive wave of dizziness hit him.

The drug worked fast. Faster than he expected.

Jaylon's legs turned to water. He stumbled backward, his eyes widening in shock. He pointed a shaking finger at Christabel.

The helpless fear vanished from Christabel's face.

She stood up slowly. Her eyes were completely dead. She stared at him like she was looking at a corpse.

Jaylon opened his mouth to scream for help. His throat was completely dry. No sound came out.

His knees gave out. He crashed onto the thick carpet, unable to move a single muscle.

Christabel walked over to him.

She raised her foot and drove the pointed tip of her stiletto hard into his ribs.

Jaylon let out a muffled, agonizing groan.

Christabel didn't feel an ounce of pity. She crouched down next to him. She needed the scandal to be perfect.

Suppressing the intense disgust churning in her stomach, she grabbed the lapels of his expensive suit jacket and yanked it off his shoulders. She ripped his dress shirt open, popping the buttons off.

She reached for his leather belt.

A soft click echoed through the room.

The door connecting the living room to the master bedroom pushed open without a sound.

A tall man stepped out of the shadows.

Glenwood's temples throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. He had woken up in this very room only minutes ago, instantly realizing someone had dared to drug his drink. He had been standing in the dark, preparing to ruthlessly dispose of the mastermind who orchestrated this trap, but instead, he was greeted by the pathetic farce of his own nephew.

His presence was suffocating. The air in the room instantly grew heavy. He stood there, his dark, bottomless eyes staring coldly at Christabel as she stripped the man on the floor.

Christabel felt the weight of his stare. She snapped her head up.

Her eyes met Glenwood's.

Her heart stopped beating for a full second.

She recognized him immediately. Glenwood Montgomery. The ruthless, blood-thirsty head of the Montgomery family. Jaylon's uncle.

Christabel shot up from the floor. Her brain spun, trying to find an excuse for this insane situation.

But the drug in her blood chose that exact moment to surge with violent force.

Her vision blurred. She swayed dangerously, her knees buckling.

Glenwood instinctively took a half-step forward. But he stopped himself just as quickly. His eyes darkened, studying her with a dangerous intensity.

Christabel bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain and the taste of blood forced her eyes to focus.

She couldn't stay here. She couldn't expose herself to this man.

She grabbed her small clutch from the sofa. She kept her eyes glued to the floor, avoiding his gaze. She stumbled toward the suite's front door.

As she rushed past Glenwood, the drug made her misjudge the distance. Her shoulder brushed against his chest. In a flash of primal, drug-induced panic, she lunged forward and sank her teeth into the flesh just below his left collarbone. At the same time, her fingernails raked wildly across his back, leaving sharp, stinging lines. Glenwood let out a low grunt but didn't push her away. The faint scent of cold cedarwood mixed with the copper taste of blood. Then she wrenched herself free, ripped the door open, and fled into the hallway.

Glenwood stood motionless, one hand rising to touch the fresh wound on his chest. His dark eyes followed her disappearing figure. A strange, dangerous smile touched his lips.

His gaze slowly dropped to the floor.

Jaylon lay there, half-naked and drooling.

A mocking sneer pulled at the corner of Glenwood's mouth. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his assistant, Leo.

"Call the hotel security," Glenwood ordered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "And tip off every major media outlet in the city. Tell them there's a show waiting for them."

Down in the underground garage, Christabel burst out of the elevator.

She sprinted toward her sports car. She yanked the door open and collapsed into the driver's seat. Her hands shook violently as she pushed the ignition button.

The engine roared to life.

Christabel slammed her foot on the gas. The car shot out of the garage and into the cool night air.

Up in the presidential suite, Glenwood walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. He looked down at the street below. He watched the red taillights of her car disappear into the city. A dark, amused smile touched his lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone again, typing a quick message to Leo: "And send a car to follow her. I want to know where she goes."

The chase had just begun.

The sports car tore through the empty streets of New York.

Christabel gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned stark white.

The traffic light ahead flashed yellow, then red.

She slammed her foot on the brake pedal. The tires screeched against the asphalt, vibrating the entire chassis of the car.

The drug hit her like a tidal wave. Her vision swam. The streetlights blurred into long streaks of yellow.

She hit the button to roll down the windows. The freezing night wind slapped her face, stinging her cheeks, but it kept her from passing out.

The light turned green. She stomped on the gas again.

Relying entirely on muscle memory and sheer willpower, she finally steered the car through the massive iron gates of the Sanders estate.

She didn't even bother parking properly. She threw the car into park the second it stopped moving. She shoved the door open and stumbled toward the main house, leaving the keys in the ignition.

Back at the Grand Hotel, chaos erupted.

Leo stood outside the presidential suite with three burly security guards. A swarm of paparazzi, tipped off by the anonymous message, crowded the hallway.

The reporters buzzed with excitement. Their camera flashes were already going off, lighting up the corridor like a strobe light.

Leo gave the head of security a subtle nod.

The guard swiped the master keycard. The heavy door clicked open.

The reporters shoved their way inside like a pack of starving wolves.

The lights in the suite blazed brightly.

Jaylon lay on the expensive carpet. He was stripped down to his boxers, completely unconscious, his mouth hanging open.

The reporters gasped.

The sound of a hundred camera shutters firing at once filled the room. They captured every humiliating angle of the Montgomery heir.

Standing in the dark shadows of the connecting bedroom, Glenwood watched the circus unfold. A satisfied, cruel curve touched his lips.

At the Sanders estate, Christabel pushed the heavy oak front door open. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

The lights in the main living room were still on.

Hilary sat on the velvet sofa, wearing a silk nightgown. She was chewing nervously on her manicured thumbnail, waiting for the phone call that would confirm Christabel's ruin.

She jumped at the sound of the door.

When Hilary saw Christabel standing there-flushed, sweating, and clearly drugged-a flash of wild joy lit up her eyes. She quickly hid it behind a mask of deep concern.

Hilary rushed forward.

"Christabel! Oh my god, what happened to you?" Hilary shrieked, intentionally making her voice loud enough to carry up the grand staircase.

Christabel stared at Hilary's fake, worried face. The memory of Hilary stepping on her broken fingers burned in her brain.

Christabel raised her right hand high into the air.

Smack.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed sharply in the quiet house.

Christabel put every ounce of her remaining strength into the slap.

Hilary's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint instantly raised on her pale cheek.

Hilary grabbed her face, her eyes wide with genuine shock. She stared at Christabel, completely paralyzed.

Rapid footsteps pounded down the wooden stairs.

Arthur and Eleanor, woken by the noise, rushed into the living room.

The second Hilary saw them, tears spilled over her eyelashes.

"Mom! Dad!" Hilary sobbed, her voice trembling perfectly. "I was just trying to help her, and she hit me!"

Eleanor ran past Hilary without even looking at her. She grabbed Christabel's arms, her face pale with panic.

"Christabel, baby, what's wrong? You're burning up!" Eleanor cried.

Arthur marched over, his face dark with anger. "What the hell is going on here?"

Christabel leaned her heavy body against her mother. She kept her cold eyes locked onto Hilary.

She forced her tongue to form the words. Her voice was raspy and freezing cold.

"Someone spiked my drink tonight," Christabel said. "They tried to destroy me."

Arthur's face turned purple with rage. The veins in his neck popped. "Who did this? I'll kill them!"

Hilary's entire body gave a violent, uncontrollable shudder. She bit her lip, her eyes darting to the floor. She didn't dare look at Christabel.

Christabel didn't point her finger at Hilary. Not yet.

Instead, she offered Hilary a slow, meaningful smile.

"Luckily," Christabel whispered, her voice carrying through the room. "I got away before the bad guys got what they wanted."

The last bit of her strength vanished.

The darkness swallowed her. Christabel's eyes rolled back, and she collapsed completely into Eleanor's arms.

The living room exploded into chaos.

Arthur screamed for the butler to call the family doctor. Eleanor sobbed, holding her daughter's face.

Hilary stood frozen on the edge of the rug. She watched her adoptive parents fawn over Christabel. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that they broke the skin.

At that exact moment, across the city, the internet caught fire.

The photos of Jaylon Montgomery, half-naked and passed out in a hotel room, hit the top trending spot on every social media platform.