The Star Awards bathed the Dolby Theatre in blinding white light.

Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights across the red carpet.

Abigail sat in a VIP box on the second tier. The lights inside the booth were turned off.

She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black gown. Her dark hair was swept to the left, deliberately hiding the scar on her cheek.

She looked down at the floor.

Preston and Lorelai were sitting in the front row. Lorelai wore a glittering, custom-made dress. Preston had his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. The perfect, supportive brother.

The ceremony dragged on. The television ratings hit their absolute peak.

A veteran actor walked up to the microphone on the main stage.

"And now, the award for Best Actress in a Leading Role."

Abigail opened the small laptop resting on her knees. The blue light illuminated her cold, unblinking eyes.

She hit the enter key.

The pre-programmed override deployed. It seamlessly hijacked the control room's mainframe using her high-level security clearance.

Behind the presenter, the massive LED screen split into four boxes to show the nominees.

When it was Lorelai's turn, the screen violently glitched.

A loud, piercing screech of static ripped through the theater's sound system.

The audience gasped. People shifted in their seats.

In the control booth, technicians were screaming, slamming their fists against locked keyboards.

Abigail's code had frozen the master override.

The LED screen went black for a fraction of a second.

Then, the high-definition security footage from Preston's office filled the massive display.

Preston and Lorelai were on the screen. Naked. Tangled together on the leather sofa.

The audio was pristine.

"As long as I have that scarred, ugly bitch playing the perfect shield..."

Preston's voice boomed through the Dolby Theatre's state-of-the-art surround sound.

The entire auditorium went dead silent. Two thousand people stopped breathing at the exact same time.

Then, the room exploded.

Screams, gasps, and shouts tore through the air.

Down in the front row, all the blood drained from Lorelai's face. She looked like a corpse. She threw her hands over her face and tried to slide down into her seat.

Preston leaped to his feet. His face was purple with rage. He pointed at the stage, screaming at the producers to cut the feed.

Every single camera in the room whipped away from the stage. The red recording lights zeroed in on Preston and Lorelai.

Abigail's phone vibrated against her leg. Twitter had just crashed.

She sat in the dark box. She watched the absolute destruction of their lives.

She picked up a crystal flute of champagne from the side table and took a slow sip.

Her phone began to ring endlessly. PR executives, journalists, board members.

She switched the phone to airplane mode.

Security guards rushed down the aisles, but it was too late. The paparazzi had already swarmed the front row, trapping the fake siblings in a cage of flashing lights.

Abigail closed her laptop. She pulled the connector cable out and shoved the machine into her bag.

She stood up. She didn't look back.

She pushed open the door of the VIP box and walked down the private exit corridor.

She stepped out into the back alley of the theater. The cool night air hit her face.

She expected to feel triumphant. Instead, a hollow, gaping emptiness clawed at her chest.

A sudden, vicious spike of pain shot through her left cheek.

The nerve endings in her scar screamed. It was a blinding, agonizing throb.

Abigail gasped. She slammed her hand over her face, leaning her weight against the rough brick wall.

Her knees buckled slightly. She needed to numb this. She needed alcohol. Now.

She lifted her head and looked across the street.

The Grand Elysium Hotel loomed against the night sky.

Abigail pulled her coat tight around her shoulders and walked toward the underground bar.

The underground bar at the Grand Elysium was suffocatingly dark.

Low, heavy jazz music vibrated through the floorboards.

Abigail sat on a leather stool at the far end of the mahogany bar.

Four empty shot glasses sat in a neat row in front of her.

The whiskey burned through her bloodstream. It cast a thick, heavy fog over her brain, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain in her cheek.

Above the bar, a muted television played the breaking news. The chyron read: VANCE MEDIA STOCK PLUMMETS AFTER INCEST SCANDAL.

The bartender and the patrons around her were whispering excitedly, pointing at the screen.

Abigail stared at the television. A bitter, drunken laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

She pushed herself off the stool.

The room tilted violently. The floor felt like it was made of liquid. She swayed, her hand shooting out to grip the edge of the bar.

She pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from her clutch and slapped it onto the wet wood. She waved off the bartender's attempt to hand her change.

She stumbled toward the elevator bank. Her vision blurred, splitting the hallway into double images.

She had a standard suite on the third floor. She rented it year-round for late nights. She just needed to get to a bed.

As she reached the elevators, she leaned heavily against the wall, fumbling blindly inside her clutch for her room card. Her fingers brushed against a thick plastic rectangle. She pulled it out, not realizing in her drunken haze that it was an old, deactivated VIP club card from a different hotel entirely.

She stumbled into the open elevator and slapped the card against the sensor panel. She clumsily jabbed her finger at what she thought was the button for the third floor. However, her hand slipped, hitting the unlabelled button at the very top of the panel.

The elevator doors slid shut. The machine didn't reject the invalid card; instead, a rare system glitch, combined with a maintenance mode left active by a careless technician earlier that evening, accepted the input. The button she pressed-the one marked 'PH'-lit up with a bright red glow.

The elevator shot upward at a terrifying speed.

It didn't stop at the third floor. It bypassed every level until it reached the penthouse.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

Abigail stumbled out. The hallway was different. The carpet was thick, plush wool. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling.

Her drunken brain didn't register the change.

She walked up to the massive, double-carved doors at the end of the hall. Instead of fumbling with a lock, she leaned her weight against the heavy wood. To her surprise, it gave way. The highest security lock in the building hadn't engaged properly; the door was left slightly ajar by whoever had rushed inside earlier in a frantic state.

Abigail pushed the heavy door open.

The air inside was freezing. It smelled like sharp cedar and something dark, heavy, and dangerous.

The lights were off. The only illumination came from the sprawling Los Angeles skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Abigail kicked off her high heels. She walked barefoot across the rug, blindly heading toward where she assumed the bedroom was.

Her skin felt too hot. She reached up and unzipped the back of her dress a few inches, letting the cool air hit her spine.

A sound stopped her dead in her tracks.

It was a harsh, ragged breath. A wet panting coming from the deep shadows of the living room.

Abigail blinked hard. She squinted into the darkness.

On the massive leather sofa, a large, broad-shouldered silhouette was curled inward.

The man let out a low, guttural groan of pure agony.

Abigail's drunken mind misfired. She thought he was having a heart attack.

She took a shaky step toward the sofa.

Abigail stumbled closer to the leather sofa.

The city lights cast a pale glow over the man. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, but the jacket was crumpled. His tie had been ripped away from his throat.

His chest heaved violently..Sweat coated his forehead, making his skin shine in the dark. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscles twitched.

Abigail dropped to her knees beside the sofa.

"Hey," she slurred softly. "Are you... do you need a doctor?"

She reached out. Her cool fingertips brushed against the burning skin of his neck, searching for a pulse.

The second her skin made contact with his, the man's eyes snapped open.

They were bloodshot. Wild. They lacked any trace of human reason. He looked like a starving wolf that had just been handed raw meat.

Josephus Hodges had spent the last hour fighting a losing battle. A rival firm had slipped a massive dose of a military-grade hallucinogenic aphrodisiac into his scotch at a merger dinner.

He had locked himself in the penthouse to ride it out. His sanity was hanging by a microscopic thread.

Abigail's cold touch, combined with the faint scent of rosewater on her skin, snapped that thread instantly.

A low, animalistic growl ripped from his throat.

His hand shot out. His fingers clamped around Abigail's wrist like a steel vice.

Abigail gasped. The pain was sharp and immediate.

Before she could pull away, Josephus yanked her forward. His strength was terrifying.

She flew through the air and crashed onto the leather cushions.

The world spun out of control. In a fraction of a second, Josephus's massive, heavy body was on top of her, pinning her down.

The alcohol in Abigail's system evaporated, replaced by cold, blinding terror.

"Let me go!" she screamed. She thrashed wildly beneath him, her hands pushing against his rock-hard chest.

Josephus didn't hear her. The drug had completely hijacked his nervous system. All he felt was the agonizing heat in his blood and the soft, cool body beneath him that promised relief.

He buried his face in her neck. His breath was scalding hot against her skin. The heavy scent of cedar and pure male aggression suffocated her.

His large hands moved with brutal urgency. He grabbed the fabric of her black gown.

With one violent pull, the expensive silk tore down the middle.

The sound of ripping fabric echoed loudly in the dark room.

The cold leather of the sofa hit Abigail's bare back.

Panic consumed her. She swung her free hand and slapped him across the face with all the strength she had.

The sharp smack rang out.

Josephus froze. His head snapped to the side.

For one agonizing second, the red haze in his eyes cleared. He looked down at the terrified woman trembling beneath him. His chest heaved as he fought his own biology.

"Get... out," he ground out through his teeth. His voice was a harsh, agonizing rasp.

Abigail scrambled backward, desperate to escape.

But as she kicked her legs to push away, her knee jerked upward. It slammed directly into his groin.

It wasn't a hard hit, but the physical friction was the final trigger.

Josephus let out a sharp hiss. The brief window of clarity slammed shut.

His eyes went completely black.

He grabbed both of her wrists in one massive hand and slammed them above her head, pressing them deep into the leather.

His other hand gripped her jaw, holding her head perfectly still.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a desperate, violent claiming.

He tasted like expensive scotch and pure dominance.

Abigail couldn't breathe. Her lungs burned for oxygen. The crushing weight of his body made it impossible to move.

Her struggles grew weaker as the lack of air and the lingering alcohol made her limbs go numb.

His hand slid down her ribcage, burning a trail of fire across her skin.