Zara Powell had passed out from the pain, and when she finally came to, dusk had already fallen. She woke up to find herself stretched out on a hospital bed.

When she fluttered her eyes open, a news report was playing on the wall-mounted TV.

"This morning, Mr. Samir Powell, president of Powell Group, announced he is cutting all ties with Powell Enterprises and pulling every last cent of his investment. The move sparked a massive industry-wide boycott of Powell Enterprises, throwing the company into an unprecedented crisis..."

Zara sat bolt upright, a crippling wave of dizziness crashing over her.

Ailani Rivera was sitting right beside her bed, remote in hand, staring at her with a toxic mix of spite and glee. "How does this feel, seeing all this?"

Zara clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. "How could you do this..."

"Ah, right," Ailani cut in smoothly, like she’d been waiting for the opening.

"You’ve been locked up for three days, so you’re probably totally out of the loop. That story broke three days ago. In those three days, your dad panicked so bad he got tangled up in some illegal fundraising scheme. He’s already behind bars."

Zara’s eyes turned blood red. She lunged at Ailani, screaming, "You’ve gone too far! I’ll kill you!"

Ailani effortlessly shoved the weakened Zara right back onto the mattress, then kept going, twisting the knife deeper.

"Don’t be so hasty—there’s more. With your dad in prison, Powell Enterprises went up in flames. Your mom panicked and ran straight out into the street… and got hit by a car. She’s still clinging to life here in the hospital, no one knows if she’ll pull through."

Zara bit her lip until it bleed, her heart splitting clean in two. She didn’t know where she found the strength, but she launched herself off the bed and wrapped her hand around Ailani’s throat.

"This is bullshit! Samir would never do this to me, he never would!"

Ailani only looked more pleased, pouring more gasoline on the fire. "Oh, he absolutely would. My brother’s dead, and Samir hates seeing me upset. So he ruined your whole family just to cheer me up."

"How do you sleep at night? How do you live with yourself!" Zara shook violently, her rage boiling over as she squeezed harder around Ailani’s neck. With her other hand, she ripped at Ailani’s hair hard enough to pull it out by the roots.

"Ailani, you witch! I’ll kill you right here! Don’t act like I don’t know what you did—you manipulated my unstable brother to come after me, you started all of this!"

Zara didn’t know Samir had called a few minutes earlier. Ailani had just muted the call on purpose, let him listen.

Ailani practically had a death wish, even choking she still gasped out more poison: "And about the engagement next week? Samir says it’s still on… just with me. He’s gonna take care of me for the rest of his life, step in for my brother, who was his best friend."

"I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you! Samir is mine! Ailani, you’ll never have him, never!"

*CRASH!*

A rough force suddenly wrenched Zara backward, slamming her hard into the floor. Pain exploded through every fiber of her body, sharp and searing.

It was Samir who’d pulled her off. Now he was gently helping Ailani back onto the chair beside the bed, brushing her off like she was spun glass. Once he was sure she was unhurt, his soft, worried expression melted straight into fury. He strode over to Zara, wrenched her chin up roughly in his grip.

"You asked for this, Zara. You finally showed your true fucking colors. Marry me? You think you’re even worthy of that?"

Marry me? You think you’re worthy? Worthy.

Zara stared blankly up at the man who looked ready to tear her apart, a bitter, crippling sadness swelling in her chest.

Once, he’d whispered to her, "Zara, I’m the luckiest man alive to get to marry you. I swear I’ll spend my whole life being loyal to you, trusting you, protecting you."

That vow still rang in her ears, now it was just hollow, painful noise.

Zara breathed out a soft, shaky sigh. The pain of his grip on her chin was nothing compared to the agony twisting her heart apart.

When she finally spoke, her voice was eerily calm. "Samir, I only have two questions. Once you answer them, I’ll accept whatever you decide to do with me."

He blinked once, his face quickly sliding back into that cold, unreadable mask, and said nothing.

Zara stared straight into his eyes, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "Was it you that pushed my family to the edge? That put my father in jail, that got my mother hit by a car and left her fighting for her life?"

Ailani looked away, unable to hold Zara’s gaze. But Samir’s merciless voice rang out clear and cold: "Yes."

One word. Light as a feather, and it stabbed straight through Zara’s heart.

Haze began to cloud her empty, numb eyes.

Looking at him now was like staring at a total stranger, someone she’d never known at all. "They loved me, they raised me for almost twenty years. They did nothing wrong. I killed someone, I’m beyond saving, I deserve every punishment I get… but Samir. They did nothing wrong."

Her voice shook, stripped of all warmth.

She’d been wrong. So utterly, completely wrong.

She’d misjudged him, dragged her parents—who should have been enjoying their peaceful retirement—straight into a living hell.

Samir turned away in disgust, scoffing coldy. "Nothing wrong? Failing to raise a decent daughter is their fault. They raised someone as vicious as you. That’s failure enough."

Zara couldn’t help it. She laughed.

It got louder and louder, until it was almost hysterical, tears streaming down her face blurring everything she saw.

Samir looked away, disgusted by her little show.

The killer was her. The one who hid what she’d done was her. The one who betrayed him, slept with another man, was her!

What right did she have to feel wronged? What right did she have to play the victim?!

"Any more questions?" Samir snapped, impatient.

Zara finally stopped laughing. She looked up at him, and her eyes were completely empty of any expectation.

"No more. There’s no point."

From now on, whether Samir married Ailani or any other woman, it didn’t mean a thing to her anymore.

Samir stood up, waved a hand to call the men waiting by the door into the room.

"You’re done asking questions, aren’t you? Good. Take her to the psychiatric institution. Let her spend a year in there to ‘recover’."

A flicker of shock finally crossed Zara’s face. She slowly lifted her head to stare up at the man standing over her, in control of everything. "What did you say?"

He was going to lock her up like she was crazy? Throw her away to rot with the mentally ill? What about Powell Enterprises? What about her parents?

Samir wouldn’t even glance at her again. His voice was colder than ice. "You killed Watson Rivera. I’m not giving you another chance to hurt Ailani."

Two big bodyguards in black stepped forward to pin Zara’s arms behind her back.

Zara didn’t struggle. She knew fighting back was useless. Her voice cracked, raw with a despair she’d never felt before in her life.

"Samir. I, Zara Powell, swear on everything sacred to me—if my parents get out of this safe, I will never forgive you for as long as I live. If anything happens to them… I will come back for you one day. I will avenge them."

Samir’s fingers twitched slightly. Even as Zara was dragged out of the hospital room, he never looked back.

Whether it was because he didn’t want to. Or because he didn’t dare.

Zara was dragged out of the hospital, and her frantic, wild laughter echoed down the corridor, lingering long after she was gone, refusing to fade.

Zara Powell had been locked in the psych ward for five days already. She was burning up with a fever that hit 104, half-unconscious on the thin hospital bed. Her clothes were soaked clean through with sweat, and she shook so hard her teeth chattered from the bone-deep cold.

In the dim, flickering light, a handful of other patients crowded around her, gawking with wide, curious eyes.

Suddenly—*crash*!

The rotting old door flew right off its hinges. A crew of huge, rough-looking goons barged in, all of them looking ready to break something. The patients shrieked and scattered like spooked mice. The leader stepped straight over to Zara, tangled a fist in her hair, and wrenched her off the bed to the floor before kicking her hard into the corner.

Warm blood trickled down her thigh, her face drained to ghostly pale, and she clutched her abdomen, agony ripping through her.

She fought to pry her eyes open, staring up at the strangers looming over her. Her voice came out so thin it was barely a whisper: "Who are you?"

A man with a jagged scar slicing across his cheek stepped forward, and ground his lit cigarette out right into the meat of Zara's shoulder. The searing, blinding pain almost shoved her straight into unconsciousness.

He growled, low and menacing: "Where's the money? Samir gave you half a million. The Powell Corp owes us tens of thousands—you think you can play games with me?"

Half a million. What a sick joke, she thought bitterly.

When she huffed a bitter laugh, he kicked her again, hard. "Spit it out! Quit messing me around!"

The blow landed square on her jaw. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the cold sweat dripping down her face.

She pulled her cracked lips into a smirk: "I don't have any money. If you want my life, take it."

"No money? Really?" He dropped to his knees, slapping her over and over with his greasy, calloused hand.

Just then, a voice crackled from the hidden phone tucked in her shirt—Samir Powell’s voice, cold as ice: "Don’t call me unless you’re dead."

The goons froze for a beat, then scrambled to yank the phone out of her clothes.

Another guy pulled their boss aside, hissing under his breath: "Boss, let’s bounce. If Samir shows up, we’re all screwed."

Grumbling, the boss pushed to his feet, spat right in Zara’s face, and stormed out.

Zara tried to scream, tried to beg. Her whole spirit was already shattered… but even now, she clung to one thin, fraying thread of hope.

"Samir, they’re here to kill me. Will you save me? Will you save our baby?"

The answer sliced through the air, cold and sharp as a blade: "Stop faking it. Even you dying to atone for Watson’s life, for the Rivera family—this is what you deserve."

The goons paused in the doorway, listening.

Samir went on, short and brutal: "And as for that brat? It deserves to go to hell right with you."

The men swapped knowing, sleazy grins and burst out laughing.

Why would they worry? Why would Samir bother saving the woman who killed his family?

Zara’s hand, clutching the phone to her trembling lips, finally went limp.

Her voice broke into a ragged whisper: "It’s our baby, Samir. No matter how much you hate me, just save the baby. Didn’t you say you always dreamed of having our child?"

"Samir, the doctor said my condition is rare. I can’t get pregnant again. If I lose this one, I’ll never have another chance."

"Samir, I’m begging you. Save me. Save this baby."

Silence.

Zara’s tears fell silent and hot, despair deeper than a frozen heart—no, worse than that. It was despair that wouldn’t let her die, wouldn’t let her fade.

She never should have called.

She hung up, letting the phone slip from her numb fingers and clatter to the floor.

The men came back. This time, the boss didn’t hesitate. He pressed his scuffed, dirty boot hard down on her already broken hand.

"Quit your whining! Hand over the money!"

Zara scraped together the last of her strength to speak: "I don’t have money. Only my life."

Suddenly, the boss’s eyes lit up with greed, locked right on Zara’s hand.

He bent down, yanking at her finger to get at the ring: "This thing looks like it’s worth a pretty penny."

Zara wrenched her hand back as hard as she could, gasping: "It’s fake."

A month ago, Samir had proposed to her with that ring.

The whole room burst out laughing.

The boss wrenched her hand back into view, sneering: "Bullshit. The fancy Powell heiress wearing a fake? Let’s see how much it’s worth."

"No, it’s worthless, it really is!" Zara’s voice was barely a breath as she pulled with everything she had left to get away.

The boss paused, surprised she still had any fight left in her.

He sneered again: "Oh? Which little lover boy gave this to you, huh?"

More cackles erupted.

Zara lifted her head weakly, panting: "Give me time. I’ll pay off every cent Powell Corp owes you."

The scarred man’s face darkened. He dragged Zara’s hand out from under her and snapped an order.

"Ungrateful bitch. You want to play hard to get? Fine, you get the consequences. Paul—cut her finger off."

Another man moved instantly, pulling a sharp switchblade out, holding it right over Zara’s knuckle, ready to slice.

Her heart hammered so hard she thought it would burst out of her chest. She whimpered, broken: "Okay, okay, I’ll give it to you, I’ll take it off for you—"

The scarred man laughed, dark and sinister: "Sorry, Miss Powell. Changed my mind. That finger of yours is worth more than any ring to Samir."

The sharp blade sliced down. White-hot agony tore through her, and everything went black.

A bucket of ice water slammed into her face, jerking her back to the pain. Even death wouldn’t let her have it.

Over the ringing in her ears, the scarred man leaned in close, his voice roaring right against her eardrum: "Samir wanted me to tell you—if you want out of here, stop taking it silent. Kill someone, and you get your escape."

"He’s real curious to see if Miss Powell can still walk free if she kills again."

Blood poured down her thigh, and her whole world narrowed down to a blinding, horrifying crimson.

The scarred man stood up, called the lingering patients lingering hovering outside the door in, and tossed a big bag of candy and chips onto the floor.

The simple-minded patients swarmed it immediately, grabbing for the treats: "Candy! Wow, so much candy!"

The scarred man grinned: "See that bleeding lady over there? Every day you make her cry, you get more of this. More than this."

The patients looked up, hungry for more: "Really, mister? I know what to do—I’ll put bugs in her bed, and worse stuff, lots of ways!"

The scarred man nodded: "Smart. Just don’t let the nurses catch you."

They nodded hard, grinning.

The scarred man stepped over to Zara, half-dead on the floor, and whispered soft and cruel right in her face: "Miss Powell, there’s a knife under your pillow. When it gets too bad, kill whoever you want. Thanks for the finger."

Zara closed her eyes, defeated.

The nightmare was over.

No.

This nightmare would replay, day after day, for the next 365 days. Every minute, every second.

Samir Powell. With every breath I have left, I pray that in the next life, and every life after that, I never have to see your face again.

Two years later…

A python coiled slow and tight around her neck, its forked tongue flickering in and out, squeezing harder with every little movement she made. Breathing got harder. Harder.

Zara Powell’s eyes flew open. Right in front of her, the snake’s head—big enough to cover an entire dinner plate—gaped open, sharp fangs bared, ready to sink into her throat.

"Ah!"

Zara screamed, jolting upright in bed, and stared as sunlight flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling window, spilling warm across the room. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t in that place.

A man in a white coat was on his feet immediately, stepping toward her, concern etched deep across his face. "You okay?" he asked.

Still dazed, Zara clutched her blanket so tight her knuckles whitened and scrambled back to the corner of the bed, terror plain on her face.

Dr. Simon Beck sighed, stepped back to give her space, and held out a warm mug of coffee from a respectful distance. "Here. Drink this. It’ll help you calm down."

Zara took the cup and sipped. It had been over a year since she escaped that place, but the memories wouldn’t let go. They clung to her like a second skin.

Clearing her fuzzy head, she apologized softly, "I’m sorry, Dr. Beck. Did I startle you?"

Dr. Beck smiled gently and sat down on the edge of her bed, his voice low and soothing. "No worries at all. And please—call me Simon. I’m not that old."

Zara pressed her lips together, looked down at her lap, and said nothing.

Simon went on, "I just finished your hypnosis session. You looked completely wiped out, so I let you sleep in a little. Feeling any better?"

Zara slipped out of bed, pulling on her gloves, her scarf, and her plain, round glasses, and answered quietly, "Much better. Thank you, Dr. Beck. I’ll be heading out now."

Simon stood to walk her to the door and advised gently, "Zara, you really should try to lose the scarf every once in a while, get more fresh air. Nervous breakdowns and depression don’t heal with treatment alone. You need to let go of the past, step out of your shell."

Zara hurried faster toward the door, and in her rush, she caught her foot on the threshold and stumbled forward.

Simon reached out to catch her, but she slapped his hand away hard, catching herself against the wall at the last second.

Her complexion was already pale—ashy white from exhaustion—but now fear leeched what little color she had left, leaving her face ghostly, bloodless.

She steadied herself, stammering apologetically, "Sorry… sorry."

Simon smoothly shifted the topic. "Your mom’s test results come out this afternoon. You’ll probably want to be there for that. It might not be good news, so brace yourself."

"Thank you," Zara replied quickly, and all but ran out of the room.

Outside the hospital, the bright midday sun was blinding. Zara shielded her eyes with a hand and pulled the hood of her white sweatshirt up higher, then climbed onto the 703 bus bound for Alpine Library.

This route took longer, but it was almost always less crowded. That was why she took it.

Settled into the very last row, she watched a young couple climb on, chattering and laughing as they made their way toward the back.

Zara coughed a couple of times and tugged her scarf tighter, tucking it up over the bottom of her face.

The girl’s laughter cut off. She glanced at Zara, all bundled up tight, and a frown of disgust tugged at her mouth. She whispered something to her boyfriend, and the pair moved all the way up to the front seats instead.

When the bus pulled up to Alpine Library, Zara got off and checked her watch. She had a little over ten minutes before her shift started, so she walked slow, dragging her feet.

A black sedan glided past her, and she automatically adjusted her hood, making sure it stayed pulled low over her face.

But when she glanced up, a cold chill raced straight up her spine.

The license plate matched that black Maybach she’d memorized, and it was parked right in front of the library entrance.

Her face went even paler under her mask, and she ducked behind a big old oak tree fast, her palms sweating even from this distance.

She’d helped Samir Powell swap that plate herself, two years ago. It was him. There was no mistaking it.

The library was out of the way, secluded. He never went places like this. How was she running into him now? After two whole years?

Working up every last bit of courage she had, she peeked cautiously out from behind the tree.

Two tall men got out of the car, drawing stares from everyone walking by.

Even after two years, Zara would know Samir anywhere. He was wearing a black button-down, leaning casual against the car door, talking to another guy in a white shirt. He watched the second man head into the library, then climbed back into his own car and drove off.

Zara felt like she’d just been thrown into an ice-cold lake in the middle of winter. She couldn’t stop trembling.

It wasn’t until her phone alarm blared—warning her she only had two minutes left before her shift started—that she snapped back to reality. She forced her panic down enough to hurry into the library.

Her coworker arched an eyebrow, glanced at her watch with a clear look of annoyance, then grabbed her bag and stormed out.

Zara slid into her spot at the front desk, relieved by the familiar quiet of the library. She pulled out sketch paper and a pencil and got to work.

This job had been Simon’s doing. It paid pretty well, the atmosphere was calm, and for some reason—probably Simon’s pulling strings—her supervisor let her work on personal stuff when it wasn’t busy.

Zara had majored in fine arts. She took occasional illustration commissions on the side to bring in extra cash, which her family desperately needed.

She finished a sketch, set it aside, and a second later, a stack of books was set gently down right in front of her.

She put her pencil down fast and stood to take the library card from the young man across the counter, ready to check his books out.

He picked up her sketch instead, and when Zara looked up with a frown, she was met with a charming, sharply polished face.

He looked to be in his late twenties, wore gold-rimmed glasses, a crisp white shirt, and a silver-grey tie, with sharp, regal features that looked like they’d been carved by a master.

He handed the sketch back, chuckling soft under his breath. "This is incredible work. You should be somewhere that actually appreciates your talent."

The second she saw his face, the first thing that popped into her head was Samir.

She handed back his card and the stamped books, her voice steady as she could make it, "Thank you. You’re too kind."

He took them, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and set a business card down on the desk between them.

"I don’t hand out compliments easily. I run a magazine that’s looking for new illustrators. Would you be interested?"

Zara hesitated to take it. Her hatred of being touched, of being close to people, had her shoulders tensing up tight.

"I’m sorry. I’m not interested. But thank you."

"Think about it. I can pay you $2,500 up front, and the same amount when you finish if it meets the brief."

His voice was gentle, insistent but not pushy—no pressure, just there.

Zara looked up again. With her mom’s medical bills piling up, an offer like that was impossible to ignore. It was tempting. So tempting.

While she was stuck hesitating, another patron stepped up with books to check out. The man slipped her sketch into his bag, saying, "I’ll show this to my editor. I’ll bring it back tomorrow. You can reach me anytime."

"Hey—" Zara called after him as he walked out, but she had to turn her attention back to the new customer waiting at the counter.

She sighed, tucked his business card into her pocket, and got back to work.

Meanwhile, the man holding her sketch left the library, a faint hint of satisfaction tugging at the corner of his mouth, and walked straight toward that black Maybach before climbing inside.