Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, warming Jocelyn's face.

She opened her eyes and stretched. It was the third day since Elam had left for London. It was also her nineteenth birthday.

The mansion was quiet. The suffocating pressure that usually crushed her chest was gone. She could breathe.

She got out of bed and put on a simple, white cotton dress. She tied her hair into a high ponytail. She looked in the mirror and saw a rare, genuine smile on her own face.

She walked downstairs to the dining room.

Earlean Medina walked out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of long-life noodles and a small, vanilla cupcake with a single lit candle.

"Happy birthday, Miss Jocelyn," Earlean smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Earlean," Jocelyn said. Her eyes pricked with happy tears. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and blew out the candle, wishing for independence.

The moment the flame died, her phone buzzed on the mahogany table.

It was an international number.

Jocelyn answered it. "Hello?"

"Happy birthday, Jocelyn," Karson's voice came through the speaker, slightly distorted by static but incredibly gentle.

Jocelyn smiled. "Thank you, Karson. How is Europe?"

They chatted for a few minutes about school and his sudden trip. The atmosphere was light and easy.

Karson took a deep breath. "Jocelyn, I really miss you. I wish I was there today."

Jocelyn's heart skipped a beat. Her fingers tightened around the phone. She didn't know what to say, but a warm blush spread across her cheeks.

"I sent you a gift," Karson continued quickly. "I tracked the international courier. It should be arriving at the mansion any minute now."

Jocelyn panicked. "Karson, you shouldn't have. If the butler sees it..."

"Don't worry, I paid for confidential delivery. Just grab it yourself," Karson reassured her.

They hung up. A minute later, the visual doorbell chimed in the hallway.

Sterling walked toward the front door.

Jocelyn jumped out of her chair. "I'll get it, Sterling! It's just some study materials I ordered."

Sterling paused and stepped back with a polite nod.

Jocelyn pulled the heavy door open. A courier in a crisp uniform handed her a sleek, square box. She signed the datapad and took the package.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She hugged the box to her chest, desperate to run upstairs and open it.

She turned around and placed her foot on the first step of the grand staircase.

A violent, ear-piercing screech of tires tore through the driveway.

Jocelyn froze.

The black Rolls-Royce Phantom slammed to a halt at the bottom of the steps. The rear door was shoved open with brutal force.

Elam Turner stepped out.

He brought the freezing London winter in with him. His face was a mask of thunderous, terrifying rage. He had worked three days straight, sleeping zero hours, and canceled a multi-million dollar gala just to be here for her birthday.

And he walked in to see this.

Jocelyn stood paralyzed on the first step. She clutched the box to her chest. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking like a ghost.

Elam's eyes slashed across her face, then dropped to the box in her arms. The logo of a high-end European jewelry brand was stamped in gold foil on the lid.

The temperature in the grand hall plummeted below zero. Sterling and the maids instantly bowed their heads, wishing they could disappear into the walls.

Elam took a step forward. His leather shoes cracked against the marble.

Jocelyn's survival instinct kicked in. She subconsciously hid the box behind her back.

That single, protective gesture poured gasoline on the inferno inside Elam's chest.

He walked to the base of the stairs. He looked up at her. A smile that didn't reach his eyes twisted his mouth.

He held out his large hand, palm up.

"Give it to me," Elam commanded. His voice was dead calm. It was the calm before a catastrophic hurricane.

Jocelyn shook her head. Her whole body trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. If she gave it to him, he would destroy Karson's kindness.

Elam's patience snapped.

He lunged up the step. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist like a vice. He violently yanked her arm forward, ripping the box from her grasp.

The box slipped from his fingers in the struggle. It hit the marble floor.

The lid popped off.

A delicate, diamond-encrusted necklace spilled out, glittering blindingly under the crystal chandelier.

The diamond necklace lay on the cold marble, sparkling like shattered glass.

Elam stared at it. The vein in his temple throbbed wildly. The last thread of his sanity snapped.

He lifted his custom leather shoe. Without a second of hesitation, he brought his heel down directly onto the necklace.

He ground his heel into the marble.

The sickening sound of diamonds and delicate platinum cracking echoed through the silent hall.

Jocelyn's heart seized. The tears spilled over her eyelashes.

"Stop!" she screamed. She threw herself forward, grabbing his arm, trying to push his leg away. "Stop it! It's a gift!"

Those words were a death sentence.

Elam grabbed the collar of her white dress. He hoisted her up, pulling her entirely off her feet.

Jocelyn gasped, choking as the fabric dug into her neck. She looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot, feral, and completely unhinged.

Elam dragged her across the hall. He marched toward a dark, unused storage room at the back of the first floor.

Jocelyn kicked and thrashed. She clawed at his iron grip, her fingernails scratching his knuckles, but he didn't even flinch. He dragged her like a ragdoll.

He kicked the storage room door open, threw her inside, and slammed the door shut.

Click. He locked it.

The room was pitch black, save for a sliver of light bleeding under the door. The air smelled of dust and old wood.

Jocelyn crashed into a pile of cardboard boxes. The rough cardboard scraped the skin off her elbows. She scrambled backward, pressing herself into the darkest corner.

Elam yanked his tie loose. His heavy, ragged breathing filled the tiny space. He stalked toward her in the dark.

He grabbed her ankle and dragged her across the dusty floor back to him. His other hand shot out and gripped her jaw, forcing her face up.

"Did you forget what you are?" Elam hissed, his voice vibrating with pure malice. "You take gifts from other men behind my back?"

"It's my birthday!" Jocelyn sobbed, the tears streaming down her face and wetting his fingers. "Why can't I just have one day?"

The word birthday punched Elam in the gut. He had nearly killed himself working to get back for this day, and she was crying over another man's trash.

The jealousy and the exhaustion consumed him.

Elam let out a low growl. He dropped to his knees, leaned down, and crushed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. It tasted of blood and violence.

Jocelyn's mind went blank. A wave of absolute terror and humiliation crashed over her. She balled her fists and hammered them against his broad shoulders.

Elam grabbed both of her wrists in one hand. He pinned them hard against the dusty floorboards above her head. He pressed his heavy body down, trapping her completely.

His tongue forced her teeth apart. He ravaged her mouth, swallowing her screams and stealing her oxygen.

Jocelyn couldn't breathe. Her lungs burned. Hot, physiological tears poured from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks and mixing between their lips. It tasted like salt and despair.

She stopped fighting.

Her body went entirely limp. Her muscles turned to stone. She stared blankly at the dark ceiling, her eyes dead and empty.

Elam felt her surrender. It wasn't submission; it was a corpse.

The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. The red haze of jealousy cleared, leaving behind a sharp, terrifying panic.

He tore his mouth away.

He looked down at her swollen, bleeding lips and her dead, hollow eyes. His chest tightened painfully.

Elam released her wrists as if they were burning coals. He stood up fast, stumbling backward a step. His chest heaved.

He couldn't look at her.

"You brought this on yourself," Elam said. His voice was cold, but it shook.

He turned, grabbed the doorknob, and ripped the door open. He walked out and strode toward the stairs, practically fleeing the scene of his own crime.

The storage room door stayed open. The hallway light spilled over Jocelyn's pale face.

She curled into a fetal position in the dust. She wrapped her arms around her knees and shivered violently.

She raised the back of her hand and scrubbed her lips. She scrubbed until the skin broke and bled. The silent, agonizing sobs tore through her chest, echoing in the cold, empty room.

The morning sun hit the dining room table, but it offered no warmth.

Jocelyn walked into the dining room like a ghost. Her eyes were swollen red. Her face was devoid of color. The memory of the dark storage room chewed on her sanity.

She avoided looking at the grand staircase. She sat at the absolute furthest end of the long mahogany table.

Earlean Medina walked in with a plate of bacon and eggs. She took one look at Jocelyn and frowned. "Miss Jocelyn, are you coming down with a fever?"

Jocelyn shook her head slightly. She picked up a silver fork.

Her phone lit up next to her plate. A notification banner from Chase Bank popped up on the screen.

Jocelyn tapped it. Her eyes widened in shock.

A wire transfer had just cleared into her personal checking account.

$500,000.00 USD.

The sender's name was printed clearly: Elam Turner.

Jocelyn's hand began to shake. The fork clattered onto the porcelain plate.

Earlean glanced at the screen. She smiled gently. "Mr. Turner is a hard man, but he takes care of you. He flew back overnight just to see you, and now this. He really does care, in his own way."

The maid's words felt like physical slaps to Jocelyn's face.

She stared at the massive number on the screen. The taste of blood and dust from last night rushed back into her mouth. Her stomach churned with violent nausea.

This wasn't care. This was payment.

He had assaulted her, humiliated her, and now he was buying her silence. He was pricing her dignity.

Jocelyn shot up from her chair. The wooden legs scraped harshly against the floor.

"I'm not hungry," Jocelyn choked out.

She grabbed her canvas bag and bolted from the dining room. She didn't grab a coat. She ran out the front doors and down the long driveway.

She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave out. She collapsed against the trunk of a large oak tree near the estate gates.

She slid down into the dirt. She stared at the bank app on her phone. The tears she had sworn not to cry spilled over her cheeks.

She was a commodity. A toy he could break and pay for.

Jocelyn took a ragged breath. Her fingers flew across the screen, initiating a new transfer. She typed in Elam's account details from memory and sent every single cent back.

The moment the confirmation screen popped up, a tiny, desperate spark of vengeance flared in her chest. She wasn't entirely broken yet.

She wiped her face, stood up, and walked to the subway station.

Meanwhile, in the second-floor study of the Turner Mansion, Elam stared at his dual monitors.

A bank alert popped up. Transfer Reversed.

Elam's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had sent the money to buy her a new necklace. To apologize for losing his mind.

And she threw it back in his face.

He swept his arm across his mahogany desk. Folders, pens, and a crystal paperweight crashed to the floor. His absolute control was useless against her.

Jocelyn arrived at the Ivy League campus. The autumn wind bit through her thin sweater. She shivered and walked into the fine arts building.

She entered the life drawing studio. The room smelled strongly of turpentine and oil paint. The other students were already setting up their easels.

Jocelyn tied an apron around her waist. She picked up a stick of charcoal. She stared at the blank canvas, desperate to pour her trauma into the art and forget the man who caused it.

But as her hand moved across the rough paper, her mind betrayed her.

The charcoal scratched against the canvas. Instead of drawing the plaster bust at the center of the room, dark, heavy lines began to form.

She was in a trance. The trauma guided her hand.

Slowly, a pair of deep, oppressive, and violently intense male eyes emerged on the canvas.

Jocelyn was so lost in the nightmare that she didn't hear the clicking of heels approaching her easel.

Deirdre Phelan, the academic advisor and art instructor, stood directly behind Jocelyn.

Deirdre looked at the canvas. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. She recognized those eyes instantly.