Everly forced her spine to stay perfectly straight until the elevator doors closed. The moment she stepped out of the lobby and pushed through the revolving glass doors, her knees buckled.

She hit the exterior brick wall of the building, leaning her weight against it as she gasped for air. The pain in her lower back throbbed with every beat of her heart.

Above her, the sky broke open. A freezing, violent Manhattan rainstorm poured down without warning.

The icy water instantly soaked through the thin fabric of her ruined gown, plastering it to her skin. Everly didn't try to find shelter. Her mind had completely detached from her body.

She walked blindly into the torrential rain. The image of Arthur's dead, gray face played on a loop behind her eyelids, overlapping with the cold, dead look in Carson's eyes.

The rain grew heavier, blurring the streetlights into smeared streaks of yellow and red. Everly reached an intersection. There was no crosswalk signal. She didn't look left or right. She just stepped off the curb onto the slick asphalt.

A blinding set of LED headlights pierced the wall of rain, hitting her directly in the face.

Everly squeezed her eyes shut against the glare.

The deafening screech of rubber tearing against wet asphalt filled the air. A massive, black Maybach slid sideways across the slick road.

The heavy vehicle couldn't stop in time. The right side of the front bumper slammed hard into Everly's left hip.

The sheer force of the impact lifted her off the ground. She flew backward through the air and hit the flooded street with a violent splash.

Her knees and elbows scraped violently against the rough pavement, tearing the skin away. Blood immediately mixed with the puddles of dirty rainwater. Everly lay flat on her stomach, her body completely numb. She didn't even have the breath to moan.

The Maybach rocked to a halt. The rear passenger door swung open.

A massive black umbrella snapped open. A pair of long legs clad in custom-tailored trousers stepped out of the car.

Guilford Lancaster stepped into the puddle, his leather shoes splashing the water. He radiated an aura of absolute, freezing authority.

He stood over Everly's prone body. His dark eyes narrowed, flashing with a mixture of extreme caution and deep disgust.

His bodyguard immediately stepped forward, shining a high-powered tactical flashlight directly into Everly's face, checking her hands for weapons.

Everly groaned. She forced her neck up. The freezing rain ran down her pale cheeks. The flashlight blinded her, forcing her to squint against the harsh beam.

Guilford looked down at her. He saw the torn, blood-stained evening gown, the messy hair, the pathetic sprawl on the street. He let out a low, harsh scoff.

"Insurance scammers in New York are getting desperate," Guilford said, his voice a deep, mocking baritone. "Throwing yourself in front of a car in a gown? You really put money into the production."

The word "scammer" hit Everly's ears. A jolt of pure, unadulterated fury shocked her nervous system back to life.

She clamped her jaw shut. She planted her bleeding hands on the rough asphalt, trying to push her upper body off the ground to scream at him.

But the fresh trauma to her hip, combined with the agonizing pain in her spine, caused her arms to give out. She collapsed back into the muddy water with a splash.

Before Guilford could speak again, the satellite phone in his breast pocket vibrated. The specific ringtone made his jaw tighten.

He pulled the phone out and answered it immediately. "Speak."

He listened for two seconds, his back turning slightly away from Everly. "The merger is compromised? Lock down the board. I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up. He glanced at his platinum watch. He had zero patience left for this street theater.

He looked at his assistant standing by the open car door.

"Pay her off," Guilford ordered coldly. "Make sure she doesn't call the cops and cause a delay."

Without another glance at the woman bleeding on the street, Guilford turned around and slid back into the luxurious, dry interior of the Maybach.

The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain.

The assistant walked over to Everly. He pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his briefcase. He dropped the cash directly onto the wet pavement in front of her face. Then, he tossed a sleek, solid titanium business card that landed with a sharp clink against the asphalt, completely unaffected by the downpour.

"Take the cash and keep your mouth shut," the assistant said flatly. He turned and got into the passenger seat.

The Maybach's engine roared to life. The massive tires spun, splashing a wave of dirty street water over Everly's head before the car sped away into the night.

Everly lay alone in the pouring rain. She stared at the soggy hundred-dollar bills floating in the puddle.

Hot tears finally broke free, mixing with the cold rain on her face. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

She didn't touch the money. Instead, her bleeding fingers reached out and snatched the heavy titanium business card. She crushed the cold metal into her palm, using the pain to fuel her muscles, and slowly, shakily, pushed herself up from the street.

The sky was a bruised, pale gray when Everly finally stepped off the Long Island Rail Road early morning train.

She dragged her battered body down the long, private road leading to the Moss family's sprawling Hamptons estate. She limped heavily on her left leg, her hip throbbing with a dull, sickening ache from the car impact.

Her fingers were stiff with cold as she pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner at the wrought-iron gates. The heavy metal swung open. She walked across the perfectly manicured lawn.

She pushed open the massive oak front doors of the main house. A blast of warm, central heating hit her freezing skin, carrying the rich scent of freshly brewed espresso and toasted brioche.

In the formal dining room to her left, her mother-in-law, Marion, and her sister-in-law, Cecily, were sitting at the table, being served by a French chef.

At the sound of the door closing, both women turned their heads.

They saw Everly standing in the foyer. She was soaked to the bone, covered in mud, her dress torn, and her skin bruised.

Cecily dropped her silver coffee spoon onto her porcelain saucer with a loud clatter. She let out an exaggerated gasp.

"My god, you're dripping mud all over the Persian rug!" Cecily shrieked, her face twisting in disgust.

Marion stood up slowly. Her face was a mask of cold fury. She walked out of the dining room and approached Everly, her eyes raking over Everly's ruined state with absolute contempt.

Without a word of warning, Marion raised her hand and slapped Everly across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the high-ceilinged foyer.

Everly's head snapped to the side. Her cheek instantly burned with a bright red handprint. But she didn't cry. She didn't even flinch. She slowly turned her head back and stared dead into Marion's eyes.

"Staying out all night," Marion hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Looking like a cheap street whore. You are a disgrace to the Moss name."

Cecily walked up behind her mother, crossing her arms. "The old man finally croaks, and she immediately runs out to find a new sugar daddy to pay her bills. Pathetic."

Everly's fingernails dug into the open wounds on her palms. The physical pain grounded her. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, refusing to engage. She turned her body toward the grand staircase, needing to see her daughter.

Marion stepped sideways, physically blocking the bottom of the stairs.

"Don't you dare walk away from me," Marion sneered. "And don't think you can use that retarded child of yours to stay in this house. That girl is a genetic embarrassment."

The word "retarded." The word "embarrassment."

The final thread of Everly's sanity snapped.

She raised her head. The look in her eyes was no longer human. It was the feral, murderous glare of a cornered wolf. She took a step forward, invading Marion's personal space.

Marion saw the pure violence in Everly's eyes. She gasped, stumbling backward in her heels, her ankle twisting slightly as she nearly fell.

"If you ever," Everly whispered, her voice a rough, gravelly rasp that sent chills down the hallway, "insult Aria again, I will drag every single one of you to hell with me."

She rammed her shoulder hard into Marion's chest, shoving the older woman out of the way. Everly dragged her injured leg up the stairs, never looking back.

When she reached the second-floor landing, the adrenaline faded, leaving her gasping for air. She leaned her back against the wall near the corner, clutching her ribs.

A faint murmur of voices drifted out from the partially open door of the family study just down the hall.

Everly held her breath. She forced her feet to move silently over the thick carpet, pressing her ear near the slight crack of the door. Inside, she couldn't hear every single word clearly, but the slick, nasal voice of Carson's personal lawyer carried just enough through the gap.

"...special needs trust fund... activate by the end of the month," the lawyer murmured. "...massive amount of liquid capital."

Then, a second voice answered, tinny and sharp through a speakerphone. It was Marion, her tone cold, calculating, and chillingly precise. "We need that cash for the IPO shortfall. Contact Dr. Evans. Pay him whatever he wants... write a medical evaluation stating Everly has suffered a severe psychotic break..."

The lawyer hesitated, his tone dropping lower. "...highly illegal, Mrs. Moss."

"I don't care," Marion snapped, her voice crackling with digital distortion as it rose in absolute irritation, no longer bothering to hide her vicious intent. "Declare her insane. Lock her in a ward. Once I have legal guardianship of that idiot child, the trust fund money legally falls under my control. I want that country trash out of my house."

Outside the door, the blood in Everly's veins turned to ice.

She bit down hard on the back of her own hand to muffle the sob tearing up her throat. Tears of pure, unadulterated hatred spilled over her lashes.

They weren't just going to throw her out. They were going to steal her daughter's lifeline.

Everly made a silent, blood-bound vow. Over my dead body.

She backed away from the door and moved silently toward the nursery.

Everly pushed open the heavy door to the nursery. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight. The air inside was thick and stale, smelling sharply of unwashed linen and neglect.

She limped quickly toward the crib in the corner.

Three-year-old Aria was curled into a tight ball, her tiny fingers gripping a worn-out stuffed rabbit.

At the sound of footsteps, Aria's eyes flew open. Panic flashed in her large, innocent eyes. But when she saw it was her mother, her little face crumpled. She let out a weak, pitiful cry and reached her arms up through the wooden bars.

Everly's heart physically tore in her chest. She reached down and pulled her daughter into her arms, pressing her face into Aria's soft hair.

As she lifted her, Everly immediately felt the heavy, sagging weight of Aria's diaper. It was soaked through, cold against the child's skin. The nanny hadn't changed her all night.

Everly's jaw locked. She carried Aria into the attached bathroom and turned on the warm water in the sink, grabbing a soft washcloth.

She laid Aria down on the changing table and gently unzipped the child's fleece onesie.

As she pulled the fabric down, Everly's eyes froze. Her breathing stopped completely.

Scattered across Aria's pale thighs and the soft skin of her inner arms were dark, purple bruises. Next to them were distinct, crescent-shaped red marks-the undeniable shape of adult fingernails digging into flesh.

Everly's hand began to shake so violently she dropped the washcloth into the sink. Water splashed everywhere.

She reached out with a trembling finger and lightly touched the edge of a bruise.

Aria flinched violently, pulling her arm back. "Owie," she babbled, her voice trembling. "Bad."

Tears erupted from Everly's eyes, hot and blinding. Marion had ordered the nanny to do this. They were torturing a disabled child.

Everly pulled Aria against her chest, holding her tight as the sound of the running water masked the guttural, agonizing sobs tearing out of Everly's throat.

When the tears finally stopped, they were replaced by a cold, mechanical focus.

Everly dried Aria off, dressed her in warm, clean clothes, and set her in the playpen.

She moved frantically around the room. She grabbed a nondescript canvas duffel bag from the closet. She shoved in diapers, Aria's medical files, her own passport, and the few pieces of jewelry she owned. She zipped the bag shut and shoved it deep into the back of the closet.

She was going to take Aria and run tonight.

A sharp knock on the door made her jump. Brenda, the head housekeeper, pushed the door open without waiting for permission.

Brenda looked at Everly with a thinly veiled sneer, maintaining the icy facade of a high-society servant. "Mrs. Moss has requested your assistance with the dinner service tonight. She felt a more hands-on role would be appropriate for you given recent events. The maid's uniform is prepared. You are to come downstairs immediately."

Everly stared at the woman. A cold laugh almost escaped her lips. To keep them blind to her escape plan, she had to play the broken victim.

"Fine," Everly said, her voice dead.

By sunset, the deafening roar of helicopter rotors shook the glass windows of the estate. The wind whipped the autumn leaves across the lawn in a violent frenzy.

Everly stood in the shadows of the grand foyer, wearing a stiff, ill-fitting black maid's uniform. She kept her head down as the massive front doors were hauled open.

Carson Moss practically bowed as he walked backward into the house, leading a tall, imposing figure out of the cold.

The man stepped inside. He shrugged off his black cashmere overcoat, handing it to the butler. The chandelier light hit his sharp, sculpted jawline and cold, predatory eyes.

Everly's heart slammed against her ribs. She instinctively took a step backward, pressing her spine against the wall, trying to melt into the shadows.

It was him. The man from the Maybach. The man who had thrown money at her bleeding body in the rain.

"Mr. Lancaster," Carson said, his voice dripping with desperation. "Welcome to our home. It is an honor to host the head of the Lancaster Group."

Guilford Lancaster shook Carson's hand with minimal effort. His dark eyes swept over the opulent foyer with an air of absolute boredom.

Suddenly, his gaze stopped.

His eyes cut through the crowd of servants and locked flawlessly onto Everly, hiding in the dark corner.

Everly stopped breathing. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She waited for him to speak, to expose her as the pathetic woman from the street, to humiliate her in front of her abusers.

Guilford's eyes darkened slightly. His gaze swept over her pale face, the bruise on her cheek, and the humiliating maid's uniform. The eye contact lasted for less than a second.

Then, as if he were looking at a blank wall, he looked away.

"Let's get this over with, Moss," Guilford said, his voice a flat, emotionless drawl. He walked past Carson, heading straight for the dining room.