The image of that blood burned into her retinas as the hotel staff eventually escorted her back to the Terrell estate. Now, hours later, the clock on her nightstand read 2:00 AM.

Blaire pushed herself off the mattress. She pulled a silk robe over her shoulders and tied the belt with trembling fingers. Her throat was parched. She needed a glass of water from the downstairs kitchen.

She pushed open the heavy carved wooden door of her bedroom. The dim wall sconces in the hallway stretched her shadow across the floor. The dead silence of the massive house made a shiver run down her spine.

She walked barefoot across the freezing marble floor. She tried to keep her steps completely silent, but her dry throat forced her to keep moving toward the grand staircase.

Just as she reached the landing of the first floor, a low murmur of voices drifted from the slightly ajar door of the study. The sound halted her steps.

Blaire wanted to turn around and go back upstairs, but she clearly heard her own name. A morbid curiosity seized her. She held her breath and crept closer to the crack in the door.

She pressed her back against the cold wall. Peeking through the narrow gap, she saw her adoptive mother, Clotilda, holding a glass of red wine. A smug, chilling smile twisted Clotilda's face.

Danita sat on the leather sofa, complaining about Kamryn's cold attitude. The anxiety in her voice was completely different from the fake outrage she had displayed at the hotel that morning.

Clotilda let out a dismissive snort. She patted her daughter's hand and told her that as long as Blaire got pregnant with the Lane family's seed, everything was going exactly according to plan.

The words struck Blaire like a physical blow to the chest. She slapped both hands over her mouth, desperately shoving the scream back down her throat.

Danita leaned forward and added a cruel detail. She said that once the baby was born, they would stage an accident, drain Blaire's blood, and transplant her healthy heart into Danita's chest.

The horrific truth hit her. A living organ bank. A surrogate tool. The realization shattered her entire reality. A violent wave of nausea hit her stomach, making her knees buckle.

She remembered the strange tasting champagne from the charity gala last night. All the recent warmth and smiles from her adoptive family had been a lethal trap to deliver her to Kamryn's bed.

Extreme terror caused her body to shake uncontrollably. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of a tall porcelain planter in the hallway.

The planter scraped against the marble with a dull, heavy grinding noise. The voices inside the study stopped instantly. Clotilda's sharp, suspicious voice pierced through the wooden door.

Blaire's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked around wildly for a place to hide, but the long hallway was empty. There was nowhere to run.

The brass handle of the study door began to turn. In that split second of absolute panic, a strong arm shot out from the darkness and clamped a large hand over her mouth.

Blaire thrashed wildly, but the force yanked her backward into the unlit storage room next to the study. The door clicked shut silently behind them.

The study door opened. Clotilda poked her head out, scanning the empty hallway. She muttered something about the night wind and closed the door again.

Inside the pitch black storage room, Blaire's back was pressed flat against a rock hard chest. The overwhelming scent of cedarwood mixed with raw male pheromones invaded her senses. Her body went completely rigid.

Calhoun Terrell's deep, gravelly voice vibrated against her ear. He asked her what she was doing sneaking around in the dark.

Blaire shoved hard against his chest. The faint moonlight filtering through the high window illuminated her adoptive brother's face. His deep set eyes were fixed on her, full of dangerous calculation.

To hide the horrifying secret she had just learned, Blaire dug her fingernails into her palms. She used the sharp pain to ground herself. She forced her facial muscles to form a pale, weak smile.

She kept her voice shaking just enough to be believable. She lied, saying she had a nightmare, came down for water, and got turned around in the dark.

Calhoun took a step forward, trapping her against the shelves. Calhoun stared at her for a long time. Instead of a gentle touch, his hand shot out, his thumb and forefinger clamping around her jaw with a bruising, authoritative grip. He forced her head up, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her pale face like a strict warden inspecting a disobedient prisoner, trying to strip away her lies.

Blaire fought the urge to flinch away. She met his stare, forcing her eyes to look wide, innocent, and dependent on her older brother.

Finally, he released her chin with a sharp flick of his wrist, seemingly accepting her story.

He took off his cashmere coat and draped it over her thin robe. His tone returned to its usual strict coldness as he ordered her to go back to her room immediately.

Blaire felt a massive wave of relief. She pulled the coat tightly around herself, the fabric still holding his body heat. She kept her head down and hurried past him, escaping the storage room.

Once back inside her bedroom, Blaire locked the door and leaned against the wood. She slid down to the floor, gasping for air as if she had been drowning.

She bit down hard on the back of her hand to keep from sobbing out loud. The sheer terror in her eyes slowly hardened into a desperate, burning will to survive.

She could not just wait to be slaughtered. She needed to make money to run away, and she needed to buy a Plan B pill first thing in the morning to destroy their surrogate plan.

The sun had barely risen when Blaire finished washing her face. She changed into a pair of jeans and a plain sweater. She took a deep breath, opened her bedroom door, and walked down to the first floor dining room.

Blaire stepped into the sunlit room. She forced down the bile rising in her throat and managed a polite, obedient smile at her adoptive parents and siblings sitting around the long table.

She pulled out a chair and sat down. She deliberately picked up a piece of whole wheat toast and chewed it slowly. The repetitive motion helped hide the slight tremor in her fingertips.

Clotilda set her coffee cup down. She used a sickeningly fake tone of concern to ask how Blaire slept last night. Her eyes, however, scanned Blaire's stomach like she was inspecting a breeding mare.

Blaire took a deep breath and looked straight into Clotilda's eyes. She kept her voice light as she answered that she slept fine. Then, she dropped the bomb. She announced her decision to move into the university dorms.

The air in the dining room froze instantly. Danita's knife screeched against her ceramic plate, leaving a harsh, ugly sound hanging in the air.

Ewald, the patriarch, lowered his morning paper. He frowned deeply and demanded a reason, playing the role of the strict but caring father.

Blaire delivered her prepared excuse. She claimed she needed to undergo intensive, closed off training to apply for the MFA scholarship. She used academic ambition as her shield.

Clotilda immediately snapped her objection. She argued that an unmarried girl living on campus would ruin the family's reputation. Blaire knew the real reason was Clotilda's fear of losing control over her walking organ bank.

Calhoun, who had been silent, suddenly placed his silverware down. He used an authoritative tone that left no room for argument. He agreed to let her go, but added a hard condition: she had to return home for dinner every single weekend.

Blaire met Calhoun's bottomless dark eyes. She knew this was his absolute bottom line. She clenched her jaw and nodded, accepting the compromise.

Danita saw the shift in power and rolled her eyes. She used a fake, innocent voice to suggest Blaire go see Kamryn tonight, trying to push their entrapment plan forward.

Hearing that name made Blaire's stomach cramp violently. She forced a bitter smile and flatly rejected the idea, citing her heavy workload.

Breakfast ended in a suffocating, bizarre silence. Blaire grabbed her backpack, muttered an excuse about the library, and practically ran out of the estate.

She walked several blocks away from the massive iron gates before her tense shoulders finally dropped. She picked up her pace and headed toward a small, inconspicuous CVS pharmacy on the corner.

She pushed the glass doors open. The blast of air conditioning hit her face. Blaire pulled the brim of her baseball cap down low, keeping her head angled away from the security cameras mounted on the ceiling.

She walked quickly to the feminine hygiene aisle. Her eyes scanned the shelves until she found the small box of Plan B. She grabbed it, but as she turned around, she bumped hard into a heavy set woman pushing a cart.

The woman loudly complained. Several other customers turned their heads to look. Blaire panicked, hiding the box behind her back and mumbling a string of apologies.

Once the attention shifted away, she hurried to the self checkout machine. She fed crisp cash into the slot, grabbed her change, and crumpled the receipt into a nearby trash can.

Stepping out of the pharmacy, Blaire ducked into a deserted alleyway. Her hands shook as she ripped the cardboard box open. She popped the pill out of the blister pack and swallowed it dry, without any water.

The chalky pill scratched the back of her throat. A bitter taste coated her tongue, but a fierce spark of satisfaction lit up her eyes. She had just ruined their master plan.

Blaire walked to a nearby park and sat down on a wooden bench. She pulled out her phone and started searching for high paying part time jobs.

She scrolled past the coffee shop listings. Minimum wage would never be enough to fund her escape from New York.

Her thumb swiped faster. She navigated to a hidden, underground New York forum, looking for something off the books.

A flashing neon banner caught her eye. Club Velvet was urgently hiring premium resident dancers. Daily cash payouts. Strict privacy protection.

Blaire clicked the link. The hourly rate listed on the screen made her heart pound against her ribs. It was the only way she could gather enough cash in a short amount of time.

She read the job description. It required revealing outfits and softcore, sensual performances. Years of conservative upbringing made her stomach twist with shame.

Then, the memory of Clotilda's face talking about draining her blood flashed in her mind. The visceral fear of death instantly crushed any moral hesitation.

Blaire clamped her teeth together. Her eyes hardened into cold steel. She tapped the application button without a second thought.

An encrypted chat window popped up. The manager told her to come to the back alley door at ten o'clock tonight, wearing a mask, for an audition.

Blaire locked her phone screen. She stared at her pale reflection in the black glass. She told herself that to survive, she had to become someone else entirely.

Blaire pulled her cheap black trench coat tighter around her body. She walked through the graffiti covered alleyway in the industrial edge of Manhattan. She stopped in front of a heavy, unmarked iron door.

The small viewing panel on the door slid open with a harsh scrape. A pair of bloodshot eyes stared at her for a few seconds. Heavy chains rattled, and the door swung inward.

Blaire took a deep breath and stepped into the dim, narrow hallway. The heavy bass of the club music instantly vibrated through the walls, making her teeth rattle.

Vince Kowalski, the floor manager, walked up to her. He chewed on an unlit cigar. He looked her up and down and told her to show him what she had to work with.

Blaire swallowed her humiliation. She unbuttoned the trench coat and let it fall open, revealing the tight black leotard underneath. Vince's eyes widened as he took in her perfect proportions.

He hired her on the spot. He shoved a liability waiver onto a clipboard and handed her a pen. Blaire signed the name "Jessica" on the dotted line without hesitating.

Vince pushed her into the crowded communal dressing room. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of cheap perfume and aerosol hairspray. Several dancers shot her glares full of territorial hostility.

Blaire ignored them. She sat down at a vanity mirror and picked up a wild, burgundy red wavy wig. She pulled it over her head, completely hiding her natural dark hair.

She applied a thick layer of foundation, covering her innocent features. She painted on heavy, dark smoky eyeshadow and a bright, aggressive red lipstick. The woman staring back at her in the mirror was a complete stranger.

She changed into the club's uniform: a black lace bodysuit and thigh high leather boots. She took three deep breaths, locking the weak, frightened Blaire away in a dark corner of her mind.

The stage director kicked the door open and yelled for Jessica to get on deck. Blaire stumbled slightly in the unfamiliar heels before finding her balance.

She pushed past the heavy velvet curtains. The blinding glare of the stage spotlights hit her face. The massive crowd of men below erupted into deafening whistles and shouts.

The visual assault made her want to shrink back, but the fear of the Terrell family pushed her forward. She straightened her spine and began to move her hips to the sultry saxophone beat.

She blended her years of classical ballet flexibility into the pole routine. She executed a flawless, inverted split high on the brass pole. The crowd went absolutely insane.

At that exact moment, behind the one way glass of the VIP booth on the second floor, Kamryn Lane leaned back against the leather sofa. He swirled the amber whiskey in his crystal glass.

He was bored out of his mind by the businessmen kissing his ass. His cold eyes swept over the main stage below, and then, they stopped moving.

The dancer in the red wig. Every spin and extension she made dripped with a lethal, natural seduction. It was completely different from the vulgar grinding of the other women.

Kamryn narrowed his eyes. His body unconsciously leaned forward. He could not see her face under the heavy makeup, but the curve of her waist and the line of her legs triggered a deep muscle memory.

His mouth went dry. He yanked at his silk tie, annoyed. For some reason, the image of the inexperienced, sweet body from the hotel bed yesterday flashed in his mind.

On stage, Blaire finished a spin and ran a finger over her red lips. Her dazed eyes swept across the second floor glass. It felt as if she was looking straight into Kamryn's soul.

That accidental glance struck a match to Kamryn's suppressed possessiveness. He lifted his glass and downed the burning whiskey in one swallow.

The men in the front row started throwing crumpled bills at the stage. A few drunk patrons reached out, trying to grab Blaire's slender ankles.

Blaire let out a sharp gasp. She quickly shimmied higher up the pole to avoid their sweaty hands. A flash of genuine panic broke through her sexy facade.

Kamryn saw that panic. The interest in his eyes instantly morphed into a dark, violent possessiveness. A primal instinct to protect what was his flared in his chest.

He turned his head to look at Mitch Duggan, his head of security standing in the shadows. He gave an order that left no room for debate.

Kamryn tapped his long finger against the glass. He told Mitch to bring the redhead to his booth, completely unharmed.

Down on the stage, the music faded. Blaire stood panting, bowing to the crowd. She prepared to kneel and collect the cash scattered on the floor. That was her survival money.

Before she could bend down, two massive men in black suits stepped out from the edge of the stage. They grabbed her arms in a vice grip.

Blaire panicked. She thrashed and screamed for help, but the crowd just cheered louder, assuming it was part of the show.

They dragged her off the stage and hauled her down a dark, private corridor leading to the second floor. She was being taken to a VIP booth, and she had no idea what nightmare waited for her inside.