The next afternoon, Ada stood in the second-floor guest bedroom. She wore the ill-fitting, coarse gray maid's uniform.

Her arms trembled as she dragged a heavy wet rag across the floor-to-ceiling windows. The severe malnutrition from prison made every movement feel like lifting weights. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Jacklyn walked in, swaying her hips elegantly. She carried a silver tray with sliced apples. She kicked the door shut behind her with her heel.

Ada stopped wiping the glass. She gripped the wet rag tightly, her muscles tensing in defense.

Jacklyn set the tray on a side table. She picked up the small, razor-sharp silver fruit knife resting next to the apples. She ran her thumb lightly over the flat of the blade.

"You really made a fool of yourself yesterday, Ada," Jacklyn whispered, walking slowly toward her. "Claiming Jakob is yours. How pathetic."

Jacklyn stopped two feet away. She leaned in, her perfume sickeningly sweet. "But you know what the funniest part is? He sleeps in silk sheets bought with your family's money. He calls me Mommy."

Ada's chest heaved. The anger boiled over, burning her throat. "The stillbirth report," Ada gritted out. "You forged it, didn't you? You stole him."

Jacklyn didn't deny it. Instead, a slow, terrifyingly triumphant smile spread across her face.

That silent confirmation snapped the last thread of Ada's sanity. She dropped the rag and took a step forward, her hands reaching out to grab Jacklyn by the throat.

Just as Ada's fingers brushed the silk of Jacklyn's blouse, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Desmond was walking past with his assistant.

Jacklyn's eyes darted to the door. Her triumphant smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, calculated madness.

Without a second of hesitation, Jacklyn raised the silver fruit knife.

Ada watched in frozen horror as Jacklyn slashed the blade hard across the inside of her own left forearm.

Blood instantly welled up, bright red and thick, soaking into the pristine white silk of her sleeve.

Jacklyn grabbed Ada's hand and forcefully shoved the bloody handle of the knife into Ada's palm.

Then, Jacklyn threw her head back and let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream.

Bang!

The heavy wooden door was kicked open so hard it rebounded off the wall.

Desmond burst into the room. He stopped dead.

Jacklyn was collapsed on the floor, clutching her bleeding arm, sobbing hysterically. Ada stood over her, holding a blood-dripping knife.

The visual triggered a violent flashback in Desmond's mind. The stairs. The blood. Three years ago.

His vision tinted red with rage.

"Desmond!" Jacklyn wailed, crawling toward him. "She tried to kill me! She said I took her place!"

Ada's hand shake so violently the knife rattled. She shook her head frantically. "No! Desmond, she cut herself! I swear to God!"

Desmond didn't listen. He lunged forward and kicked Ada's wrist with his heavy leather shoe. The knife flew out of her hand and clattered against the wall.

He grabbed a fistful of Ada's hair and yanked her backward.

Ada screamed in pain as she was dragged out of the room and thrown onto the hallway carpet.

"Get the medics!" Desmond roared at his assistant.

He turned back to Ada, grabbed her by the collar of her uniform, and dragged her down the hallway like a corpse. Ada's knees banged against the stairs as he hauled her down to the basement.

Deep in the bowels of the manor was a reinforced steel Panic Room, built for extreme security threats.

Desmond punched a code into the keypad. The heavy metal door hissed open.

He threw Ada violently into the pitch-black room. She hit the concrete floor hard, scraping her palms.

"You want to act like a violent animal?" Desmond spat, his voice echoing in the dark. "Then you'll live in a cage. No food. No water. Until you learn."

Ada scrambled to her knees, crawling toward the sliver of light at the door. "Desmond, please! Don't lock me in the dark! Please!"

Desmond looked down at her with absolute disgust. He hit the button.

The heavy steel door slammed shut with a final, echoing boom. The locks engaged.

Absolute, suffocating darkness swallowed Ada whole.

The silence was deafening. Only the faint hiss of the air vent broke the quiet.

Ada curled into a tight ball on the freezing concrete. The severe claustrophobia she developed in solitary confinement hit her like a freight train. Her throat closed up. She began to hyperventilate, her body shaking uncontrollably in the dark.

Inside the Panic Room, time ceased to exist. The absolute darkness pressed against Ada's eyeballs like a physical weight.

Her claustrophobia triggered a severe panic attack. Her lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement. She gasped for air, her fingernails frantically scratching at her own throat as if trying to tear it open to breathe.

The freezing temperature of the concrete floor seeped into her bones. Her body, already weakened by malnutrition, succumbed to a violent fever.

She curled into a fetal position in the corner. Her mind began to fracture, slipping into a delirious, semi-conscious state. The trauma of the prison's water torture and dark cells flooded her brain.

Her cracked, bleeding lips parted. She began to mutter a name, over and over, in a broken, desperate whisper.

"Kael... Kael, please... save me..."

Two floors above, in the master study, Desmond sat frozen in his leather chair.

He was staring at the security monitor. The infrared camera in the Panic Room showed Ada curled in a glowing white ball on the floor. He wore a headset, intending to listen to her beg for his mercy.

Instead, the audio feed pumped that loathed name directly into his ears.

Kael.

Desmond's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. A sudden, violent surge of jealousy erupted in his chest, burning like acid.

Kael. The name was a brand on Desmond’s soul. Her lover from before prison. The father of the bastard child she had lost.

He aggressively typed the name into his computer terminal, searching for any new lead on the man's whereabouts. Still nothing. The man’s disappearance three years ago only fueled his rage.

On the screen, Ada's body suddenly convulsed violently. Then, she went completely limp. The slight rise and fall of her chest became dangerously shallow.

Desmond ripped the headset off, cursing loudly. He shoved his chair back, sprinted out of the study, and took the stairs down to the basement two at a time.

He punched the code into the keypad. The heavy metal door swung open, spilling harsh hallway light into the room.

Desmond stepped inside and kicked the sole of her shoe. "Get up. Stop faking."

Ada didn't move.

Desmond cursed again, bending down to grab her arm. The moment his skin touched hers, he recoiled. She was burning up. Her skin felt like a furnace.

Annoyed, he slid his arms under her knees and back, lifting her off the floor.

As he pulled her up, the cheap, oversized collar of her maid's uniform caught on his watch. The rough fabric tore, sliding down her arm and exposing her left shoulder and entire upper back to the bright hallway light.

Desmond froze. His breath caught in his throat.

His eyes locked onto her skin.

It was a landscape of horror. Thick, raised keloid scars crisscrossed over her shoulder blades. There were circular burn marks from cigarettes, jagged lines from shiv cuts, and the unmistakable, parallel welts of a leather whip.

The scars were brutal, ugly, and undeniably real.

Desmond's heart physically dropped in his chest. A sharp, unfamiliar ache pierced his ribs. He had assumed federal prison was just a loss of freedom. He had never imagined she was subjected to systematic, barbaric torture.

His hands, holding her burning body, suddenly felt unsteady. A dark, twisted sense of guilt clawed at his throat, though he immediately tried to suppress it.

He tightened his grip, pulling her closer to his chest, and carried her rapidly up the stairs to his own master bedroom.

Before he laid her down, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, titanium tracking anklet. He locked it securely around her thin ankle, the metal cold against her burning skin. He wasn't going to risk her disappearing into the shadows again.

He laid her gently on the massive king-sized bed and immediately hit the intercom to summon the private estate doctor.

When the doctor arrived and began administering an IV drip, he saw the scars. He opened his mouth to ask.

"Shut your mouth and do your job," Desmond snapped, his voice lethal.

Once the doctor left, Desmond sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at Ada's pale, sweat-slicked face.

An hour later, Ada's eyelashes fluttered. The fever reducer was working. She opened her eyes.

Seeing Desmond sitting there, her body reacted on pure instinct. She scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror.

"Please," she rasped, her voice broken. "Just give me the divorce. I want nothing. I'll disappear."

The brief moment of pity in Desmond's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, possessive fury. He leaned over her, his hands trapping her against the headboard.

"I told you," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "You are never leaving. You will die an Ortiz."