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.

Morning sunlight spilled across the Persian rug. Carissa shot up from the impossibly soft king-size bed, gasping for air.

Her hand instinctively reached under the pillow for her knife. Her fingers brushed cold silk sheets, and reality crashed back in. She was at the Gates estate.

Her phone vibrated violently on the nightstand. An unsaved number, but she recognized Isiah's digits immediately.

She took a slow breath, hit the record button, and answered. She didn't speak.

"Did you send the mob to put my guys in the hospital last night?!" Isiah roared through the speaker.

Carissa let out a dry laugh. "Those were Gates family security. They clean up garbage."

Isiah choked on his words. His tone shifted to a slimy whine. "Since you're back with the billionaire, you owe us two million. We sold that brat three years ago to make your life easier! You should be thanking me!"

Bile rose in Carissa's throat. "I'm recording this call."

Dead silence. Then Isiah exploded. "I'll go to the press! I'll tell them you abandoned your family!"

"Go ahead," Carissa snapped, her voice like cracking ice. "And I will hand this recording to the police. Extortion and human trafficking. I'll use the Gates legal team to bury you so deep you'll never see daylight again. Do not ever contact me."

She hung up and blocked the number. Her hands weren't shaking anymore.

She walked into the marble bathroom and splashed freezing water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. Dark circles under her brown eyes. Cheekbones too sharp. She couldn't afford to be weak here.

As she dressed, her phone rang again. Her landlord.

"Your thug family destroyed my hallway!" the man screamed. "You owe me five grand in damages or I'm calling the cops!"

Yesterday, Carissa would have panicked. Today, she felt nothing.

"I'm currently staying at the Gates estate in Long Island," Carissa said, her voice tight, mimicking the cold authority she'd been subjected to since arriving. "Any bills you have? You can take them up directly with their lawyers."

The landlord's aggressive breathing stopped. "G-Gates? Oh. Uh, my apologies, Miss Molina. I'll handle it." He hung up.

Carissa smirked. Power was a useful weapon.

She stepped out of her room, determined to see Isadore. At the end of the hall, Alistair stepped into her path, holding a silver tray.

"Madam Essie has decreed you may only visit the young master for one hour at three PM," Alistair said, his chin tilted up, his thin lips pursed.

Carissa didn't back down. She stepped into the butler's personal space. "Whose house is this, Alistair?"

Alistair blinked, caught off guard. "Mr. Guilford's, of course."

"Exactly," Carissa sneered. "And Mr. Guilford brought me here to fulfill a medical contract. If my mood is ruined and it affects my ability to conceive, will you take responsibility when his son dies?"

Alistair's face turned a mottled red. He opened his mouth. No words came out. The threat of Guilford's wrath was absolute.

Carissa shoved past him, her posture radiating the authority of a woman who knew exactly what her body was worth to them.

She walked up the stairs, pushed open the nursery door, and saw Isadore sitting up slightly, holding a small stuffed rabbit.

When he saw her, his dull eyes lit up. "Mommy," he breathed.

Carissa rushed to the bed. She touched Isadore's pale cheek. His skin was terrifyingly cold under her fingers.

Isadore coughed, a weak, rattling sound from his small chest. He pointed a tiny finger at a bowl of pumpkin soup on the nightstand. "Hungry."

Carissa touched the bowl. Ice cold. She immediately hit the call button.

A young maid entered a minute later, carrying a fresh, steaming bowl of soup. She had a round face and a permanent sneer. She rolled her eyes, slammed the bowl on the table, and left without a word.

Carissa ignored the disrespect. She picked up the heavy silver spoon, scooped up the hot liquid, and blew on it carefully.

She brought it to Isadore's lips. Her eyes were wide with desperate hope. Eat. Get strong.

Isadore swallowed obediently. But his stomach, ravaged by months of chemotherapy, immediately cramped. He winced.

Carissa was too blinded by her anxiety to notice. She quickly scooped another spoonful. And another. "Eat, baby. You have to eat to beat the sickness."

She fed him too fast. Isadore, wanting to please his mother, forced the heavy liquid down. His face turned a sickly gray.

On the fifth spoonful, Isadore gagged. He pushed her hand away and let out a violent retch.

Thick yellow vomit erupted from his mouth. It splashed all over Carissa's shirt and soaked into the pristine white blankets.

The sour, acidic stench filled the room. Isadore curled into a tight ball, his face bright red, sobbing as his stomach convulsed.

Carissa froze in sheer panic. She dropped the bowl. It clattered on the hardwood floor. She grabbed her sleeve to wipe his mouth. "Oh god, Izzy, I'm sorry—"

The nursery door slammed open. Guilford and Dr. Adler rushed in.

Guilford took one look at the vomit-covered bed and his agonizing son. A storm of pure fury exploded in his eyes.

He lunged forward, grabbed Carissa by the arm, and yanked her away from the bed. The sudden force made her stumble backward. Her shoulder slammed into the solid mahogany wardrobe. A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips. The silver spoon clattered across the floor.

Guilford didn't even look at her. He rolled Isadore onto his side to prevent choking, his large hands moving with desperate precision.

Dr. Adler checked the boy's vitals, his stethoscope pressed to Isadore's small chest. After a tense minute, the doctor exhaled. "He's stable. Just severe gastric distress." He shot Carissa a look of deep reprimand over his wire-rimmed glasses.

Guilford spun around. He stalked toward Carissa, stopping inches from her face.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Guilford roared. His voice vibrated the glass in the windows. "Are you trying to kill him?"

Carissa trembled violently, her back throbbing with pain. A hot flash of defensive anger surged in her chest at his accusation, but the moment her eyes darted to Isadore's tear-streaked face, the fire died. The crushing weight of her own mistake suffocated her pride. "I... I just wanted him to eat. I didn't know his stomach couldn't handle it."

Guilford let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "You didn't know? Because you haven't been a mother to him for three years! You come in here, playing the devoted mom, and you almost choke him to death."

Every word twisted in her gut.

"You're as selfish and incompetent now as you were when you sold him," Guilford spat.

Tears spilled down Carissa's cheeks. Her love for her son had just been weaponized against her.

Imogene appeared in the doorway, taking in Carissa's vomit-stained clothes and Guilford's rage. A satisfied smirk played on her pink lips.

Guilford pointed at the door. "Get out. You're not to come within ten feet of him without the doctor present. Get out of my sight."

Carissa looked at Isadore, wanting to apologize, but Guilford's lethal glare pinned her in place.

She lowered her head and walked out of the room under the mocking stares of the gathered staff.