The helicopter touched down on the massive green lawn of Blackwater Bay Estate. The house looked like a modern castle of glass and black stone.

Hollis grabbed Carole's arm and pulled her out of the cabin.

Mr. Finch, the head butler, stood by the front doors with a line of staff. He looked at Carole's messy clothes and bare feet, but his face remained perfectly blank.

"Finch," Hollis said, walking past him. "Redo the staff schedule. She does not leave this house. No one opens her door without my order."

Carole was dragged up the grand spiral staircase. Hollis pushed her into a massive bedroom suite.

The room was beautiful, but heavy iron bars covered the floor-to-ceiling windows. Two guards stood in the hallway.

Hollis let go of her arm. "This is your world now. Do not try to leave."

Carole lunged at him, swinging her fists. Hollis stepped to the side. She tripped over the thick rug and fell hard onto the floor.

Hollis looked down at her. He turned around and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut. The deadbolt locked.

Carole scrambled to her feet. She hit the wooden door with her fists. "Let me out! You psycho!"

No one answered.

She turned around and leaned against the door. A fresh copy of the marriage agreement sat perfectly centered on the coffee table.

She walked over, picked it up, and ripped it into pieces.

Hours passed. The sun went down. A maid unlocked the door, pushed a cart of hot food inside, and left quickly.

Carole looked at the roasted chicken and vegetables. She pushed the tray off the table. The plates shattered on the floor. She sat on the bed and crossed her arms.

In his study on the other side of the house, Hollis was reading a report. Suddenly, a violent cramp twisted his stomach. The report slipped from his numb fingers, and he instinctively pressed his forearm hard against his abdomen, his breath catching in his throat as a wave of severe, physical nausea washed over him.

He stood up, his chair crashing to the floor. He marched out of the study and up the stairs.

He kicked Carole's door open. The wood splintered.

Carole jumped back on the bed. Hollis stormed into the room. His face was dark red with anger.

He grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and dragged her off the bed. He pushed her down into the chair next to the ruined food.

"Eat," Hollis ordered, pointing at a piece of bread that had survived the crash. "Or I will shove it down your throat myself."

Carole looked up at him. His eyes were wild. He was not just angry; he was in physical pain. The fear finally broke through her stubbornness.

Hollis stepped back, crossing his arms. He watched her like a guard dog.

Carole's hands shook. She picked up the bread and took a small bite. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

Hollis rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. His breathing slowed down as the hunger pain faded from his stomach.

"If you don't hurt yourself, I won't bother you," Hollis said, his voice tight. "You are doing this to yourself."

Carole swallowed the bread. A single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto her lap.

Hollis looked at the tear. He clenched his jaw, turned around, and walked out. He did not lock the door this time, but the shadows of the guards remained in the hall.

Carole finished the bread. She stood up and started walking around the room. She checked the corners of the ceiling.

Three small cameras were hidden in the molding. He was watching everything.

She walked into the bathroom and locked the door. There were no cameras here.

She looked at her pale face in the mirror. She bit the inside of her cheek. She was not going to die in this house. She started opening the drawers, looking for anything she could use.

Carole opened the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity. Under a stack of towels, she found a small, pink eyebrow razor. She slipped it into the sleeve of her sweater. It was small, but it was metal.

She walked out of the bathroom and sat by the window, staring blankly at the lawn. She needed the guards to think she had given up.

The door opened. Hollis walked in. He wore a dark grey sweater and held a medical file.

"Get up," Hollis said. "We are going to the clinic for your ankle."

Carole's heart jumped. Leaving the estate meant a chance to run. She stood up quietly and followed him out the door.

They sat in the back of the Maybach. K. Sterling drove them toward Manhattan.

Carole stared out the window, watching the traffic lights and the crowds of people. She calculated how fast she could run if she opened the door at a red light.

Hollis reached across the seat. He grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"Do not even think about it," Hollis said, staring straight ahead.

Carole felt the heat of his palm. She hated it, but she kept her hand still.

The car pulled up to a high-end private clinic. Hollis led her inside.

"I need to use the restroom," Carole said, pulling her hand away.

Hollis nodded to a guard. The guard followed her down the hall. Carole walked slowly, looking for a back exit. The hallway was packed with Wall security. There was no way out.

She turned around to walk back to the lobby.

As she passed the elevator bank, she stopped dead in her tracks.

A man sat in a wheelchair, facing the elevator doors. He wore a dark charcoal cashmere coat. His shoulders were thin, but the posture was exactly the same.

Carole stopped breathing. The scent of a very specific, rare cigar hit her nose.

Jose Lynn.

Her first love. The boy who died in the fire five years ago.

Carole lunged forward. "Jose Lynn! Is that you?"

The guard grabbed her arm and pulled her back. The elevator doors slid open. The man's assistant pushed the wheelchair inside.

For one second, the man turned his head. Carole saw the sharp line of his jaw and the cold, empty look in his eye.

The doors closed.

Carole stood frozen. Her chest heaved. Tears flooded her eyes. It couldn't be him. He was dead.

Hollis walked around the corner. He saw Carole shaking, her face pale, staring at the elevator.

Just then, a sharp, agonizing physical constriction seized his chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath. It felt as if ice water had been poured directly into his lungs-a severe, physiological stress response triggered by her sudden panic attack, bleeding perfectly into his nervous system.

Hollis grabbed her shoulders. "What are you looking at?"

Carole shook her head wildly. "Nothing. It was a ghost."

Hollis looked at the elevator numbers going up. His jaw clenched tight. He hated the look in her eyes. He hated that someone else made her feel this much pain.

He dragged her into the doctor's office.

The doctor checked her ankle, but Carole didn't feel a thing. Her mind was stuck on the man in the wheelchair.

Hollis paced the room. He felt her racing heartbeat. He slammed his hand on the desk.

He pulled out a new contract. "Sign it. Now. The terms are better. You get your own wing of the house."

Carole looked at the paper. She thought about the man in the wheelchair. If Jose was alive, she couldn't be trapped here.

"No," Carole said softly.

Hollis grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the chair. He dragged her out of the clinic and shoved her into the car.

"If you do not sign it by tonight," Hollis yelled, his face inches from hers, "I will have your adoptive parents moved to the cell next to yours."

Carole shrank back into the leather seat. She bit her cheek until she tasted blood. The threat was real. She had to escape today.

The Maybach returned to Blackwater Bay. Hollis ordered the guards to double their patrol outside her door.

Carole sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands were shaking. Hollis's threat echoed in her ears. She could not let him touch her parents.

She watched the clock on the wall. At exactly 1:00 PM, a maid pushed a silver food cart into the room.

Carole noticed the bottom half of the cart. It was a large storage cabinet covered by a black cloth, used for dirty dishes. It was big enough to fit a person.

Carole stood up. She grabbed her glass of red wine and intentionally knocked it over. The dark liquid spilled all over the white rug.

"Look what you made me do!" Carole yelled, acting completely unhinged.

The maid gasped and dropped to her knees, trying to wipe the stain.

"Get a proper cleaner!" Carole screamed. "Get out and fix this!"

The maid scrambled out of the room, leaving the door cracked open.

Carole moved instantly. She opened the bottom cabinet of the cart. She pulled out the empty trays and shoved them under the bed.

She crawled into the tight space and pulled the black cloth down. She curled her knees to her chest. It smelled like old cheese and bleach.

Five minutes later, the maid returned. She scrubbed the floor, crying softly. Carole held her breath.

"I am taking the cart now, Miss," the maid said to the empty room.

The cart jerked forward. Carole felt the wheels rolling over the carpet.

The cart stopped at the door.

"She is in the bathroom," the maid told the guards.

One of the guards lifted the black cloth slightly. Light hit Carole's boots. She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she was caught. Without a second thought, she reached into her sleeve, pulled out the pink eyebrow razor, and sliced a shallow but sharp cut across her own thigh. A stinging fire erupted on her skin.

Three floors up, Hollis let out a sudden, violent roar, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the estate's intercom system. "What the hell is going on down there?!" Hollis's voice boomed from the nearby security radio, thick with unexpected pain. The guard flinched, completely distracted by his boss's sudden outburst. He assumed the shadow was just a trick of the light, dropping the cloth instantly to grab his radio. "Go ahead," the guard ordered the maid, rushing away to answer the call.

The cart rolled down the hallway and into the service elevator. Carole felt her stomach drop as the elevator went down to the ground floor.

The doors opened. The noise of the busy kitchen filled the air. Pots clanging, chefs yelling.

The maid pushed the cart into the dishwashing room and walked away to grab fresh towels.

Carole pushed the cabinet door open. She slid out onto the wet tile floor. She stayed low, hiding behind a stack of cardboard boxes.

The kitchen staff were busy arguing over a delivery. Carole crawled to the back door and pushed it open.

The cold afternoon air hit her face. She was in the back gardens.

She stayed crouched, running from bush to bush, avoiding the cameras she had memorized from her window. The stone wall was fifty yards away.

Suddenly, the sound of a heavy engine roared up the driveway.

Carole peeked through the leaves. The black Maybach was pulling up to the front doors. Hollis was back early.

Panic exploded in her chest. She abandoned the bushes and sprinted across the open grass toward the large oak tree near the wall.