Six hours before the escape.

Alistair marched Katelyn up to the third floor.

He opened the heavy oak doors to Arnett's private study and shoved her inside.

The room was dim, lit only by a green banker's lamp.

The walls were lined with early abstract expressionist paintings. Katelyn's stomach dropped. They were her mother's early works.

The air was thick with the suffocating smell of aged leather and Arnett's cigars.

Arnett sat behind his massive desk, rolling an expensive fountain pen between his fingers.

His eyes slithered over Katelyn's body like physical hands.

"Sit," he commanded.

Katelyn sat on the edge of the leather chair, keeping her eyes on her knees.

Arnett sighed, a fake, theatrical sound of disappointment.

"You embarrassed this family yesterday, Katelyn," he said softly. "But I am a forgiving man. I want to give you a chance to make amends."

He slid a thick manila folder across the polished wood.

Katelyn looked down.

It was a medical authorization form from the exclusive private care facility in Switzerland where her grandmother lived.

"Your grandmother's experimental treatments are very expensive," Arnett murmured.

He pulled another document from his drawer and placed it next to the medical file.

"Sign this, relinquishing your shares in the Reed family trust, and I will ensure the facility continues her medication."

Katelyn's lungs seized.

Her grandmother was the only person left in the world who loved her. Arnett had found her only weakness and put a knife to its throat.

Arnett stood up. He walked slowly around the desk and stopped right behind her chair.

He leaned down. She felt his breath on her neck.

He inhaled deeply, smelling her shampoo.

"You look so much like her," Arnett whispered, his voice thick with a sick, repressed lust. "So arrogant. So desperately in need of discipline."

Katelyn's whole body went rigid. Bile rose in her throat.

She forced two hot tears to spill over her eyelashes.

She reached out with a trembling hand.

She picked up the pen with her left hand.

She was right-handed.

With jerky, unnatural strokes, she signed her name on the trust document.

Under California law, a signature obtained under duress, with abnormal handwriting, could easily be contested in court.

Arnett smiled, looking at the signature. He felt like a god.

"Good girl," he said. "You may take a walk in the garden this afternoon. One hour."

At 2:45 PM, Katelyn walked out the back doors into the French gardens.

She wore a baggy gray tracksuit. Two security guards trailed ten feet behind her.

She kept her head down, but her eyes darted toward the private access road beyond the wrought-iron gates.

At 2:55 PM, the roar of a V6 engine shattered the quiet afternoon.

A bright red Porsche 911 slammed on its brakes right outside the main gate.

Eleanor hopped out, wearing oversized sunglasses and a furious expression.

"Open this gate!" Eleanor screamed at the gatehouse guards. "Chelsea stole my Birkin bag and I want it back right now!"

The guards in the garden tapped their earpieces, distracted by the shouting at the front.

At exactly 3:00 PM, the estate's massive irrigation system kicked on.

A thick wall of water sprayed into the air, catching the sunlight and creating a blinding mist across the lawn.

Katelyn dropped to a crouch.

She sprinted behind a row of tall rose bushes, moving with terrifying speed.

She reached the heavy side gate.

She pulled a small, black device from her pocket-an EMP generator she bought off the dark web.

She slammed it against the electronic card reader.

She pressed the button.

A sharp zap echoed. The magnetic lock clicked and died.

Katelyn shoved the heavy iron gate open and slipped through.

She didn't look back. She ran down the shaded perimeter wall, her lungs burning, her legs pumping.

Five hundred yards down the road, an abandoned bus stop came into view.

Tires screeched.

The red Porsche drifted to a halt right in front of her. The passenger door popped open.

Eleanor pulled down her sunglasses. "Get in, Cinderella."

Katelyn threw herself into the leather seat.

The Porsche tore off down Highway 101, leaving the golden cage in the dust.

The Porsche wove violently through the traffic on Highway 101.

Eleanor checked the rearview mirror. "No black SUVs. We're clear."

Katelyn didn't relax.

She unzipped the canvas duffel bag sitting at her feet.

She ripped off the baggy gray tracksuit, revealing a sleek black turtleneck and dark jeans underneath. She pulled a black trench coat over her shoulders and jammed a baseball cap onto her head.

The pathetic, trembling orphan vanished.

In her place sat a cold, calculating woman with ice in her veins.

Katelyn pulled a brand-new smartphone from the bag.

She booted it up, connected to an encrypted VPN, and typed in a 32-character alphanumeric password.

The screen loaded a dark web cryptocurrency wallet.

The balance displayed in Bitcoin was staggering. Millions of dollars.

For years, the underground art world had paid a fortune for the chaotic, brilliant works of the anonymous artist known only as "The Wilds."

Katelyn's fingers flew across the screen.

She transferred a massive chunk of the funds into a secure offshore account to cover the private jet charter and her tuition in London.

Eleanor whistled. "If Arnett knew the 'crazy girl' was sitting on a multimillion-dollar empire, he'd have a stroke."

"He'll find out eventually," Katelyn said, her voice dead flat. "And when he does, I'm going to take everything from him."

The Porsche pulled into the Signature Flight Support terminal at San Francisco International Airport.

There were no TSA lines here. No metal detectors.

A ground handler in a crisp white shirt walked up to the car.

Katelyn handed him her brand-new passport.

The name on it read: Kate Vance.

The handler nodded respectfully. "Your Gulfstream is ready, Ms. Vance."

Katelyn turned to Eleanor. She pulled her into a tight, fierce hug.

"Thank you," Katelyn whispered.

Eleanor shoved a business card into Katelyn's pocket. "My brother Julian is in London. Stay the hell away from him. He's still tangled up with the Atherton crowd and would sell you out for a designer watch in a heartbeat. This card is for a private fixer I trust. Call him if you need anything."

Katelyn nodded, though she had no intention of calling anyone connected to her old life.

She walked out onto the tarmac.

The wind whipped her trench coat around her legs. She climbed the stairs of the Gulfstream G650 and the heavy door sealed shut behind her.

She sank into the plush leather seat and ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

As the jet engines roared and the plane tore into the sky, Katelyn looked down at the shrinking California coastline.

She didn't cry. She took a sip of the burning liquid and smiled.

Back at the Reed estate, Alistair unlocked Katelyn's bedroom door to bring her dinner.

He walked to the bed and pulled back the duvet.

It was a pile of pillows.

Alistair's face drained of color. He hit the panic button on his radio.

Sirens blared across the Atherton estate.

Arnett burst into the room minutes later.

He stared at the empty bed. The veins in his neck bulged.

He grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand and hurled it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

"Lock down the airports!" Arnett roared, spit flying from his lips. "Call the police! Tell them a severely mentally ill patient has escaped and is a danger to herself!"

Across the city, Etienne sat in his sprawling office at the Strickland Syndicate headquarters.

Zane walked in and dropped a piece of paper on Etienne's desk.

"The Reeds just put out a massive APB," Zane said. "One of their family members went missing."

Etienne picked up the paper.

It was a missing person flyer.

The photo was blurry, taken when the girl was maybe twelve years old. The text below read: Severe PTSD. Extremely fragile.

Etienne stared at the grainy photo. There was something vaguely familiar about the shape of her eyes.

But his mind immediately flashed to the woman in the closet.

The woman who had kissed him with violent hunger. The woman who had manipulated him and escaped like a ghost.

There was no way in hell that wild, cunning creature was this pathetic, fragile mental patient.

Etienne scoffed. He crumpled the flyer into a ball and tossed it into the trash can.

"Drop it," Etienne commanded coldly. "She took the money and ran. I'm done wasting my time."

Thirteen hours later, the Gulfstream touched down on the wet tarmac of London Luton Airport.

Katelyn stepped out into the freezing drizzle.

She took a deep breath of the damp air.

She hailed a black cab.

"The Royal College of Art, please," she told the driver in a carefully practiced British accent. She had spent countless nights in the dark, mimicking BBC broadcasts on her burner phone until her jaw ached, ensuring her American vowels were completely erased.

The hunt was over. The war had begun.

Three months later.

The Mediterranean sun beat down relentlessly on the deck of the Shadow Trust, a massive, hundred-meter black superyacht anchored off the coast of Monaco.

In the glass-walled penthouse office on the top deck, Etienne Strickland stood staring out at the azure water.

He wore a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to expose the heavy ink on his forearms.

He held a satellite phone to his ear.

"Cut their funding," Etienne said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. "I don't care if they file for bankruptcy tomorrow. Bleed them dry."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto his massive mahogany desk.

He rolled his shoulders, his jaw ticking with irritation.

V. Nash, his head of security, stepped into the office holding a leather-bound dossier.

"The latest reports on the European art syndicates we're tracking for money laundering, boss," Nash said, setting the file down.

Etienne flipped the folder open.

His eyes scanned the pages of financial data until they locked onto a specific paragraph.

It detailed the sudden, explosive rise of an underground artist known as "The Wilds."

Attached was a blurry photograph of a recent painting.

Etienne stared at the chaotic, violent brushstrokes.

A sharp, phantom pain flared in his shoulder where she had bitten him three months ago.

He slammed the folder shut.

"Take the yacht out to international waters," Etienne snapped. "I'm not attending that pretentious art gala on the lower deck tonight."

Down on the middle deck, the atmosphere was entirely different.

A string quartet played softly over the sound of clinking crystal glasses.

Katelyn stood near the railing, a glass of vintage champagne in her hand.

She wore a minimalist, backless black silk slip dress that clung to every curve. Her hair was swept up, her posture straight and commanding.

The terrified girl from California was dead.

She was Kate Vance now, the darling of the Royal College of Art, rubbing shoulders with Europe's elite.

She smiled politely, finishing a conversation in fluent French with a Parisian gallery owner.

As the man walked away, Katelyn turned to look out at the ocean, letting out a quiet sigh of exhaustion.

"Katelyn Reed?"

The voice hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute.

She turned slowly.

Standing there in a garish floral shirt was Julian Thatcher. Eleanor's older brother.

He had a blonde socialite clinging to his arm.

Katelyn's face remained a mask of absolute calm.

"Excuse me?" she said smoothly. "I think you have the wrong person. My name is Kate."

Julian stepped closer, his eyes raking over her body with sleazy amusement.

"Bullshit," Julian laughed. "Everyone in Atherton thinks you're locked up in a padded cell, and here you are, fishing for sugar daddies in Monaco."

The blonde socialite sneered, looking Katelyn up and down like she was trash.

Katelyn's heart hammered against her ribs, but her face didn't twitch.

Julian was a rat. He would sell her location to Arnett for a quick payout in a heartbeat.

She didn't argue.

She simply raised her glass and threw the freezing champagne directly into Julian's face.

Julian gasped, stumbling backward as the alcohol burned his eyes. The blonde screamed.

Before anyone else could react, Katelyn spun around and walked quickly toward the interior glass doors.

Julian wiped his face, his face turning purple with rage. He pulled out his phone and immediately dialed Brien Reed's number.

Katelyn pushed through the doors, her heart racing.

She needed to hide.

She took a wrong turn down a quiet, dimly lit corridor marked "VIP ONLY."

She pushed open a heavy velvet-lined door and stepped inside.

It was a private art gallery.

The room was pitch black, save for a few dramatic spotlights illuminating priceless classical oil paintings.

Behind her, she heard the heavy thud of security boots entering the corridor. They were looking for the woman who assaulted a guest.

Katelyn quickly darted behind a massive marble statue of Apollo, pressing her back against the cold stone.

She held her breath.

Footsteps echoed in the gallery. But they weren't coming from the door.

They were coming from the private elevator at the back of the room.

Etienne had come down to escape his own thoughts.

He stopped in front of a painting, his sharp ears catching the faint rustle of silk.

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes pierced through the shadows, locking onto the edge of a black dress peeking out from behind the statue.

He walked forward, his footsteps completely silent on the thick carpet.

Katelyn squeezed her eyes shut, praying to the dark.

Suddenly, a massive, calloused hand shot into the shadows.

Long fingers clamped around her bare wrist like a steel vice.

With one violent tug, Etienne ripped her out of the darkness and into the spotlight.

Katelyn gasped, her eyes flying open.

She crashed directly into a solid, muscular chest.

She looked up.

The air vanished from her lungs.