The next morning, Carissa sat in a glass-walled conference room on the top floor of a Manhattan skyscraper. The city sprawled below her, gray and indifferent. Guilford's private attorney sat across the table, a thin man in his sixties with a pinched mouth and eyes like cold pebbles.

He slid a thick document across the polished table. "Reproductive Cooperation Agreement." He placed an expensive Montblanc pen next to it.

Carissa opened the folder. She bypassed the medical clauses and flipped straight to the appendix labeled "Historical Debt Settlement."

There it was. A bank transfer record from three years ago. Five million dollars. The receiving account belonged to Isiah Molina. Her father.

Carissa's stomach cramped violently. Acid rose in her throat. Essie hadn't been lying.

"If you sign this new contract," the lawyer said, his voice flat, "the previous five million is forgiven, and you will receive substantial new compensation."

Carissa slammed the folder shut. She didn't touch the pen. "I have personal business to handle first." She stood up and walked out.

She rode the elevator down, her hands shaking so badly she could barely press the lobby button.

An hour later, Carissa walked down a trash-littered street in Queens. She stopped in front of a peeling, rundown townhouse with a sagging porch and dead plants in cracked pots.

She didn't knock. She pulled a spare key from her bag and shoved it into the rusted lock. The door shrieked open.

Inside the cramped, messy living room, Isiah Molina was slouched on a stained sofa, watching a baseball game on an old TV. He was a heavyset man in his late fifties, with a ruddy face, thinning gray hair, and small, mean eyes. Her stepmother Janey sat beside him, a plump woman with bleached blonde hair and dark roots showing, filing her nails with a face mask on.

Isiah jumped at the sound of the door. "What the hell are you doing here? Come to beg for rent money again?"

Carissa didn't speak. She marched forward and threw the crumpled photocopy of the bank transfer directly at his face.

The sharp edge of the paper sliced a tiny cut across Isiah's cheek. He roared, jumping up with his fists clenched. Then his eyes fell on the numbers printed on the paper. He froze.

Janey ripped her face mask off, her eyes wide with panic. She scrambled to grab the paper. "That... that was for an investment!" she stuttered.

Carissa stepped into Isiah's space, her eyes bloodshot. "Did you sell my sick baby to the Gates family for five million dollars?" Her voice came out raw, scraped clean.

Isiah's shock morphed into defensive rage. His face went red. "He was a burden! Selling him to rich people was the best thing for him!"

The sheer audacity turned Carissa's vision red. She swung her arm and slapped Isiah across the face with every ounce of strength she had.

The crack echoed in the small room. Janey shrieked and lunged at Carissa, grabbing a fistful of her dark hair.

Carissa, hardened by years of working double shifts, grabbed Janey by the shoulders and shoved her hard. Janey crashed into the glass coffee table. It shattered.

Isiah grabbed a wooden baseball bat from the corner. He raised it, his face twisted in ugly fury. "I'll break your legs, you ungrateful bitch!"

Carissa didn't flinch. She stepped directly into the swing path. She pointed a finger at her own forehead. "Do it. Kill me. Because if you don't, I'm going to the police, and I will watch you rot in prison for human trafficking."

Isiah's arms trembled. The look in her eyes terrified him. He slowly lowered the bat, spitting on the floor. "You're a monster."

Carissa looked around the room. A room paid for with her son's life. Every ounce of love she'd ever had for this man evaporated.

She picked up a pair of craft scissors from the side table. She grabbed a chunk of her own hair and sliced it off. The dark strands dropped onto the glass-covered rug.

She pulled out her cracked phone. The screen lit up with a photo of Isadore's pale, smiling face. She stared at it for a long moment. The violent tremor in her fingers slowly faded. Her eyes shifted from the wreckage of her past to the cold, undeniable reality of what she had to endure for her son's future. The fire of her vengeance cooled into hardened, unbreakable armor.

"I have no family," Carissa said, her voice dropping to a dead monotone. "If you ever come near me again, I will drag you to hell with me."

She turned and walked out, slamming the rusted door so hard the frame rattled.

Outside, she leaned against the brick wall. She tilted her head back, refusing to let the tears fall. She pulled out her phone and dialed the lawyer's number.

"I'll sign the natural conception agreement," she said, her voice steady.

She hung up. She was going to use the Gates family's power to take back everything that was hers.

Inside the cavernous mahogany study of the Long Island estate, Guilford stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He rolled an unlit cigar between his long fingers, his jaw tight, his broad shoulders rigid under his white dress shirt.

The heavy double doors creaked open. Imogene walked in, her footsteps silent on the Persian rug. She carried a steaming cup of black coffee.

She set the cup on the massive desk, walked up behind Guilford, and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body against his back.

Guilford went rigid. He reached down, peeled her hands off his stomach, and stepped away, putting the width of the desk between them.

Imogene's smile faltered. She recovered fast, her face shifting into a mask of gentle concern. "How were Isadore's latest labs?"

Guilford sank into his leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Worse. We have to start the process immediately."

Imogene placed both manicured hands on the desk, leaning in. "Guilford, we should use IVF. That woman... her life is a mess. Who knows what diseases she carries? Natural conception is too risky. It'll dirty you."

Guilford's hands stopped moving. He slowly raised his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers, piercing.

Imogene swallowed hard. Her gaze darted away, nervously straightening a stack of files on his desk.

"Dr. Adler was clear," Guilford said, his voice empty of warmth. "IVF has a ten percent success rate. Isadore doesn't have time for us to fail."

Imogene bit her lip, her white teeth pressing into the gloss. "I can bring in the best specialists in the country. My family's medical connections—"

Guilford slammed his Montblanc pen onto the desk.

The crack echoed like a gunshot. Imogene jumped back, her face draining of color.

Guilford stood up. His towering frame cast a long shadow over her. "This is a Gates family matter. I don't need outsiders interfering."

The word outsider hit Imogene like a physical strike. Her eyes instantly welled with tears. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"To save my son," Guilford said, his voice dropping to a brutal, absolute register, "I would sleep with the devil herself. I don't care how disgusting she is."

Imogene's chest tightened. A sick jolt of jealousy shot through her. She realized she couldn't stop the physical contact. She forced a sob, playing the victim. "I just love you so much."

Guilford waved his hand toward the door, already looking back at his laptop. "I have work. Leave."

Imogene ground her teeth together. She whispered an apology and walked out.

The second her hand touched the brass doorknob, her gentle, victimized expression vanished. Her face went cold, calculating. She stepped into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. Pulling her phone from her designer purse, her thumb hovered over a contact. She took a deep breath, smoothing her features back into perfect elegance just as Alistair walked by.

Imogene stopped him with a raised hand. "Alistair. Find out Carissa's exact address in Queens. Immediately."

Alistair bowed his head. Imogene walked away, her heels clicking sharp and fast against the marble.

Inside the study, Guilford pressed the intercom button. "Franklin. Did she sign?"

His assistant's voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes, sir. She agreed to the natural conception. And... she didn't ask for a single cent in additional compensation."

Guilford's brow furrowed. No money? That contradicted everything he believed about her.

An irritating itch of suspicion crawled up his spine. He looked out the window at the darkening sky. He tossed the unlit cigar into the trash can, grabbed his suit jacket off the chair, and walked out. He was going to get her himself.

Night had fallen. Rain came down in sheets. Inside her cramped basement apartment, Carissa aggressively shoved her few items of clothing into a faded canvas duffel bag. The single bare bulb overhead flickered.

Suddenly, violent pounding shook her thin wooden door. Men shouted outside, hurling curses. Isiah had sent his street thugs to collect his hush money.

Carissa threw her body weight against the door, holding it shut. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She reached over to the kitchenette counter and grabbed a rusted butcher knife.

Outside, the thugs smashed her potted plants and kicked the metal trash cans. The noise was deafening.

She knew the door wouldn't hold. She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and ripped the door open.

She lunged forward with the knife raised high, a feral scream tearing from her throat.

The thugs, three men with hard faces and bad intentions, stumbled backward. Carissa sprinted through the gap between them, bursting out into the pouring rain.

"Get that bitch!" one of them yelled.

Carissa ran down the flooded street, the heavy rain blinding her. Her lungs burned. Water sloshed over her shoes.

As she rounded a dark corner, a massive, foul-smelling drunk stepped out of an alley. He grabbed her arm, his grip crushing down instantly. His face was red and bloated, his eyes glassy and mean.

He laughed, a wet, disgusting sound, and tried to drag her into the shadows. The thugs closed in from behind.

Carissa thrashed wildly. She slammed the heavy handle of the knife into the drunk's skull. He grunted and backhanded her across the face.

The force sent Carissa flying. She crashed into a deep puddle of muddy water, scraping her palms raw on the asphalt.

The drunk lunged for her.

Suddenly, twin beams of blinding LED headlights tore through the rain.

A black armored Maybach slammed on its brakes, sending a wave of dirty water crashing over the drunk's legs.

The car door kicked open. Guilford stepped out into the storm. He wore a black trench coat, his dark hair instantly plastered to his forehead by the rain. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

Before the drunk could turn around, Guilford's bodyguard materialized and kicked the man square in the chest. The drunk flew backward, hit the brick wall with a sickening crunch, and slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The thugs chasing Carissa skidded to a halt. They saw the armored car and the men in suits. They turned and ran.

Guilford walked over to where Carissa sat in the mud. He looked down at her, his jaw locked tight. Rain streamed down his sharp features.

He didn't offer his hand. Instead, he shrugged off his custom trench coat and threw it roughly over her head.

The heavy fabric engulfed her. It was warm, radiating his body heat, and smelled strongly of cedar and expensive cologne. Carissa's lips were blue. She looked up at him, stunned.

"Get in the car," Guilford ordered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't ruin my leather seats."

Carissa gritted her teeth. She didn't say thank you. She pulled the coat tight around her shivering body and limped into the back of the Maybach.

Guilford got in beside her. Water dripped from his hair onto his white shirt. He ordered the driver to head to Long Island, then told his guard through the window to "make sure those men learn a permanent lesson."

The cabin fell silent, save for the rain drumming on the roof. Water dripped from Carissa's hair onto the plush floor mats.

Guilford opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and slammed it into the cup holder in front of her.

Carissa hesitated. Then she grabbed the bottle and drank greedily. The cold water soothed her burning throat.

Guilford stared at the red handprint swelling on her cheek. "You rejected my money for those pieces of trash?" he mocked.

Carissa turned her head, staring out the rain-streaked window. "I don't have a family anymore," she said, her voice hoarse but absolute. "I only have my son."

Guilford's heart did a strange, uncomfortable stutter. He looked at her thin, rigid posture wrapped in his coat, and for the first time, he didn't have a cruel retort.

An hour later, the Maybach pulled up to the illuminated estate. Alistair was waiting with a black umbrella, his thin figure silhouetted against the mansion's golden lights.

Guilford stepped out first. "Put her in a guest room," he told the butler, and walked into the house without looking back.