Leland's chest puffed out slightly. A smug, satisfied smile touched the corners of his mouth.

He truly believed the three years of isolation and chemical restraints had crushed her spine. He believed she was finally the obedient, broken dog the Campbell family needed her to be.

"Follow me," Leland ordered.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the isolation room. Ella followed. Her legs felt heavy and weak, but she forced her steps to remain even.

They walked down the sterile white corridor until they reached the heavy oak door of Dr. Finch's office.

Leland pushed it open without knocking.

Dr. Finch, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses, shot up from his plush leather chair. He wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks.

Leland tossed the discharge papers onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a soft slap.

Finch adjusted his glasses. He picked up the paper, his eyes darting nervously between Leland and Ella. He cleared his throat.

"Mr. Campbell, I must advise against this," Finch said, his voice dripping with fake medical concern. "Ella's borderline personality disorder is highly volatile. She is prone to pathological lying and violent outbursts. Another year of intensive therapy-"

"Another year of draining my family's trust fund, you mean," Leland interrupted. His voice was like a whip.

Finch swallowed hard. The greed in his eyes was obvious.

"I can control a broken girl, Doctor," Leland said. He leaned over the desk, invading Finch's space. "Sign the bottom line. Now."

Finch's shoulders sagged. Knowing he had lost his cash cow, he picked up a gold pen and scribbled his signature.

He opened his top drawer and pulled out a small, clear glass vial filled with liquid, along with a sealed syringe.

"Take this," Finch said, sliding the vial across the desk. "It's a highly potent synthetic sedative cocktail. If she has a psychotic break at the gala, inject it straight into her thigh. It will suppress her nervous system and neutralize her in a matter of minutes."

Leland picked up the vial. He slipped it into his pocket.

Ella stood near the door. She watched the two men trade drugs and signatures to manage her like she was a dangerous piece of livestock. Her chest felt tight, but she forced her breathing to remain shallow. She felt nothing but a deep, hollow pity for them.

A nurse walked into the office. She carried a battered, taped-up cardboard box.

"Her personal belongings from admission," the nurse mumbled, shoving the box into Ella's arms.

Ella gripped the bottom of the box. Her index finger slid along the bottom edge. She felt the slight bulge under the false cardboard bottom.

Her heart gave a hard, sudden thump against her ribs.

The three notebooks filled with AP Calculus, Macroeconomics, and Advanced Literature notes-smuggled in page by page by a sympathetic janitor-were still there. Her entire future was hidden in that half-inch gap.

Leland looked at the dirty box. His nose wrinkled.

"Go to the bathroom down the hall," Leland commanded. "Take off that disgusting hospital gown. Put on whatever rags are in that box. You are not getting into my car smelling like a psych ward."

Ella nodded. She hugged the box to her chest and walked out.

She entered the small, flickering bathroom and locked the door. The loud click of the lock gave her a sudden rush of oxygen.

She set the box on the sink and looked in the mirror.

Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass. Her skin was a sickly, translucent white. But her dark eyes were burning. The dead, compliant look was gone, replaced by a fierce, terrifying clarity.

"Tonight," she whispered to her reflection.

She stripped off the hospital gown. She pulled out the faded, dark blue dress she had worn the night they dragged her away three years ago. It was too short now, hitting her mid-thigh, and tight across her chest.

She smoothed the cheap fabric down. She picked up her box, unlocked the door, and walked out to meet Leland.

A custom, armored black Rolls-Royce Phantom idled in the circular driveway of the sanatorium. The exhaust plumed into the freezing morning air.

Arthur Sterling, the Campbell family's longtime driver, stood by the rear door. He wore pristine white gloves.

As Leland approached, Arthur pulled the heavy door open and bowed his head slightly. Leland slid into the spacious, plush leather main seat.

Ella stepped forward, clutching her cardboard box. She moved to follow Leland into the back.

Arthur's arm shot out. His elbow subtly but firmly blocked her chest.

Ella looked up. Arthur's face was a mask of polite indifference, but his eyes were filled with disgust. He jerked his chin toward the rear-facing jump seat-the cramped, narrow fold-out chair meant for assistants or luggage.

Ella didn't argue. She didn't waste her breath. She squeezed past Arthur's blocking arm, bent her knees, and sat on the hard jump seat.

Arthur slammed the door shut. The heavy thud sealed them in a soundproof bubble.

The engine purred. The limo glided forward, leaving the iron gates of Pine Ridge behind.

The air inside the car was suffocating. The heat was turned up too high.

Leland opened the crystal decanter in the center console. He poured himself two fingers of amber whiskey. He didn't offer Ella water. He didn't even look to see if she was comfortable.

He took a slow sip, letting the ice clink against the glass.

"The entire board of directors will be there tonight," Leland said, staring at the passing trees. "The Mayor. The Thorne family. The media."

He swirled the whiskey.

"Don't think about pulling a stunt, Ella. You are a ghost tonight. You exist only to make Ashlyn shine brighter. You will show them how sick you were, and how gracious she is for forgiving you."

Leland reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a heavy, embossed card. He tossed it onto her lap, the sharp corner grazing her thigh. "Memorize every single word on this card," he commanded, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "If you miss one syllable, I will personally drag you back to that isolation room."

Ella stared out the tinted window. The bare trees blurred into a gray streak. Her face was completely numb.

Her lack of reaction made a muscle in Leland's jaw twitch. He hated when she didn't cry.

He reached onto the seat beside him. He picked up a thick, glossy black paper shopping bag and threw it hard at Ella.

The sharp, stiff edge of the bag struck the back of Ella's hand.

A sharp sting flared across her skin. A thin red line appeared on her knuckles, welling with a tiny bead of blood.

"Put that on when we get to the hotel," Leland snapped. "You look like a beggar who crawled out of a dumpster. I won't have you embarrassing us before you even get on stage."

Ella looked down at the bag. She reached inside and pulled out the fabric.

It was a dress. It was a dull, lifeless, ash-gray color. The cut was shapeless and conservative, designed to make the wearer look entirely invisible. It was the perfect garment to contrast with whatever glittering gown Ashlyn would be wearing.

Ella folded the ugly fabric over her bleeding hand.

"Thank you, brother," she said. Her voice was flat, mechanical, and entirely empty.

Leland scoffed. He turned his head and stared out his window for the rest of the ride.

Hours passed. The gray landscape shifted to the towering steel and glass of Manhattan. The neon lights from the city streets bled through the tinted windows, washing over Ella's pale face.

She looked up at the glowing spire of the Empire State Building.

Her fingers tightened around the thick paper bag. The sharp edge dug into her palm, but she welcomed the pain. She swallowed the thick lump of humiliation blocking her throat.

The limo slowed down. It didn't pull up to the grand, red-carpeted front entrance of the Four Seasons. Instead, it veered into a dark, narrow alleyway, stopping abruptly by the hotel's service door.

Arthur got out of the driver's seat. He walked around the back of the limo and opened Leland's door. He stood at attention.

He did not open Ella's door.

Ella pushed the heavy door open herself. The icy Manhattan wind hit her bare legs instantly. She shivered, clutching the black paper bag to her chest, and stepped onto the greasy asphalt.

Leland didn't walk toward the bright lights of the lobby. He pointed a manicured finger at the dull metal service door.

"You don't get to walk through the front doors of a Campbell event," Leland said, his voice dripping with venom. "In there."

Ella nodded. She followed him into the building.

The heat of the hotel kitchen hit her like a physical blow. The air was thick with the smell of searing meat, truffle oil, and sweat.

Line cooks and waiters in white aprons paused their chopping. They stared at the pale, skinny girl in the faded blue dress trailing behind the billionaire. Their eyes held a mix of raw curiosity and blatant pity.

Ella kept her eyes on the floor.

Leland led her to a massive, dented metal freight elevator. They stepped inside. The doors rattled shut, and the elevator jerked upward to the second floor.

When the doors opened, they stepped out into a narrow, unlit corridor. It was a hidden passageway used by audio-visual technicians.

The entire right wall of the corridor was a massive two-way mirror.

Through the glass, the grand ballroom of the Four Seasons exploded in a riot of color and light. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over hundreds of guests in tuxedos and evening gowns.

In the dead center of the room stood Ashlyn.

She wore a custom haute couture gown. It was midnight blue, covered in thousands of tiny Swarovski crystals that caught the light with her every movement. She looked like a flawless, untouchable princess.

Leland stepped up behind Ella. He stood so close she could feel the heat radiating from his suit.

"Look at her," Leland whispered harshly in her ear.

Ella kept her face perfectly still. She watched the scene unfold.

The ballroom lights suddenly dimmed. A single, blinding white spotlight snapped on, illuminating Ashlyn and the man standing across from her.

Caleb Thorne.

He was the heir to the Thorne financial empire. He was also the boy who had kissed Ella in the rain four years ago and promised he would never let her family hurt her.

Caleb dropped to one knee. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket. The diamond inside was the size of a robin's egg. It flashed violently under the spotlight.

The crowd erupted into applause. Women gasped. Ashlyn covered her mouth with both hands, weeping perfect, delicate tears.

Leland's breath hit Ella's neck. "Did you really think Caleb would wait for a psycho? He never loved you. You were just a charity case."

He waited for Ella to break. He waited for the tears, the screaming, the jealous rage that Dr. Finch had documented in the medical files he had paid so handsomely for.

Ella watched Caleb slip the ring onto Ashlyn's finger.

Her heart didn't ache. Her chest didn't tighten. She felt absolutely nothing but a cold, heavy sense of absurdity. It was like watching a bad play performed by strangers.

She turned her head slowly. She looked Leland dead in the eye.

"When can I go out there and apologize?" Ella asked. Her tone was as casual as if she were asking for the time.

Leland's face fell. His eyes widened slightly in shock, followed immediately by a surge of furious red creeping up his neck. He had wanted to break her, and her apathy felt like a slap to his face.

"Down the hall," Leland snarled, pointing a shaking finger into the darkness. "There's a staff restroom. Put that ugly dress on. And don't you dare come out until I send someone for you."