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.

The quiet hum of the art studio was shattered by the sharp clack of Christian Louboutin heels.

Deirdre Phelan stopped dead next to Jocelyn's easel.

Jocelyn snapped out of her trance. She gasped, her hand flying up to cover the canvas, but she was too late.

Deirdre's hand shot out. Her fingers, tipped with blood-red nail polish, dug painfully into Jocelyn's wrist. She yanked Jocelyn's arm away.

Deirdre stared at the dark, brooding eyes on the canvas. A toxic wave of jealousy ignited in her chest. She had met Elam Turner at a university gala. She had thrown herself at him and been ignored.

"What is this?" Deirdre hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "A charity case like you, drawing Mr. Turner? How pathetic."

Jocelyn's face flushed with humiliation. "It's... it's just a sketch. It's nobody."

"Don't lie to me," Deirdre snapped.

Blind with jealousy, Deirdre grabbed a metal palette knife from the tray.

With a vicious swipe, she slashed the blade directly down the center of the canvas.

The thick paper tore with a loud, violent ripping sound. The dark eyes were sliced in half.

Jocelyn cried out. She grabbed the edges of the ruined drawing, her heart sinking.

Deirdre looked down her nose at her. "This is garbage. You will stay here and redraw the still life. If it is not on my desk by tonight, I will fail you for the semester."

The other students in the room kept their heads down. No one dared cross Deirdre.

Jocelyn swallowed the lump of humiliation in her throat. She nodded silently, pulled down the ruined paper, and clipped a fresh sheet to the easel.

Deirdre sneered and clicked away on her high heels.

Hours bled into each other. The studio emptied out. Outside the massive windows, the sky turned a bruised, angry purple. Thick black clouds rolled in.

Jocelyn's stomach cramped with hunger, but she didn't stop drawing.

At 9:00 PM, she finally finished. She dropped the charcoal, placed the drawing on Deirdre's empty desk, and walked out of the building.

The moment she pushed the glass doors open, a massive crack of thunder shook the ground.

A freezing Nor'easter rainstorm unleashed on the city.

Jocelyn didn't have an umbrella. She pulled her thin sweater tight and sprinted through the freezing downpour toward the bike racks，go and ride the bicycle she left here previously.

She fumbled with the combination lock, her fingers numb from the cold. She pulled her beat-up, second-hand bicycle out, the rusted chain groaning in protest as she pulled it free, and climbed on.

She pedaled hard, desperate to get back to the mansion before the storm worsened.

Two blocks away from campus, a loud snap echoed from the bike.

The rusted chain broke.

Jocelyn's foot slipped off the pedal. She lost her balance and crashed hard onto the wet asphalt.

Her palms scraped against the rough road. Blood mixed with the dirty rainwater running down her hands.

She groaned, pushing herself up. She grabbed the greasy, broken chain, trying to force it back onto the gears, but her hands were too numb and slick with rain.

Cars sped past her, kicking up massive waves of dirty water. Not a single car slowed down.

Jocelyn stood in the pouring rain. She stared at the broken bike. The dam broke. She sobbed, the tears washing away in the heavy rain.

She reached into her pocket for her phone to call a cab.

The screen was black. Water had seeped into the charging port. It was completely dead.

She had no money. No phone. No bike.

Jocelyn grabbed the handlebars. She started walking.

She pushed the heavy, useless bike through the freezing rain. The cold seeped into her bones. Her lips turned blue. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her scraped legs.

It took her an hour of agonizing walking to reach the wrought-iron gates of the Turner Mansion.

The security guard in the booth saw her through the rain. His eyes widened in shock. He quickly buzzed the pedestrian gate open.

Jocelyn dropped the bike against the stone wall.

She dragged her feet up the steps, pushed the heavy oak door open, and stepped into the blindingly bright, warm grand hall.