Aliana POV

I went straight to my room in the attic.

Or rather, the space they allowed me to occupy. It wasn't really a room. It was a converted storage closet with a sloped ceiling that punished me if I stood up too straight.

I opened the door and stopped.

The closet was empty. My drawers were pulled out, their contents vomited onto the floor. My bed was stripped to the mattress.

My books, my few clothes, the photo of my mother—all of it gone.

I walked to the window and looked down into the courtyard. Near the service entrance, by the industrial dumpsters, lay a pile of fabric and paper.

They had thrown my life in the trash.

I didn't feel the sting of tears. Instead, I felt a strange, cold lightness. It was as if they had done the packing for me.

I turned and walked back downstairs, out the service door, and to the dumpsters. I found my old servant's uniform—the black dress with the white collar. It was stained with coffee grounds.

I put it on over my clothes. I didn't care about the filth. If they wanted a servant, I would give them a servant one last time before I burned their house down.

I walked into the staff quarters.

My father, Mr. Rodriguez, was sitting in his small armchair, wheezing. His face was gray. He had been an Associate for the family for thirty years, a glorified bookkeeper who kept his mouth shut. Now, his heart was failing, and the Crawfords refused to approve the surgery.

"Ali?" he rasped. "Why are you wearing that?"

"We're leaving, Papa," I said, kneeling beside him. "Tonight. Anderson is coming."

His eyes widened. "The Reaper? Ali, that is dangerous."

"Staying here is death," I said. "Pack your pills. I'm going to get the car."

I kissed his forehead and marched back into the main house.

I found them in the dining room. They were eating lunch. The air smelled of sherry and cream. Lobster bisque.

Cecil looked up, a piece of bread in her hand. "Finally. You look appropriate for once. Clear the table."

I didn't move. I stood at the head of the table, a stain on their perfect picture.

"I need the keys to the station wagon," I said. "My father is sick. I'm taking him to the hospital, and then we are not coming back."

Cecil laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "The station wagon is for staff use only. And since you just tried to walk out on my son, you are no longer staff. You are trespassing."

"Give me the keys," I said, my voice dead flat.

Cecil stood up. She walked over to me, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. She was a small woman, but she was constructed entirely of malice.

"You are trash, Aliana," she hissed. "Just like your father."

She shoved me. Hard.

I wasn't expecting it. I stumbled back, catching my heel on the edge of the rug. I fell, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

The back of my uniform dress, old and worn, tore open with a sharp *riiiip*. My shirt underneath rode up.

The room went silent.

For the first time in five years, the air touched the skin of my back.

"Oh my god," Hadley shrieked. "That's disgusting!"

I scrambled to my knees, pulling my shirt down, but it was too late. They had seen it.

The map of agony. The thick, rippled, purple and white keloid scars that covered my entire back from neck to waist. The skin that had melted off when I shielded Damien from the fire.

Damien was staring at me. His face wasn't filled with recognition. It was filled with revulsion.

He covered his mouth. "Jesus, Ali. Cover that up. I'm trying to eat."

He didn't know. He looked at the scars *he* caused, the scars that saved his life, and he wanted to vomit.

Cecil sneered, looking down at me like I was a cockroach. "Damaged goods. No wonder you hide in the attic. Who would want to touch *that*?"

A sound bubbled up in my throat. I thought it was a sob.

It was a laugh.

I laughed, wild and manic. I stood up, shaking.

"Does it repulse you, Damien?" I asked, stepping toward him. "Does it make you sick?"

He held up a hand, shielding his eyes. "Get away from me. You're a freak."

Keith, the security guard by the door, took a step forward. Keith was a low-level soldier, but he had kind eyes. He had been there the night of the accident. He suspected.

"Mr. Crawford," Keith said, his voice trembling. "Those scars... she got them when—"

"Silence!" I snapped. I wouldn't let him tell them. They didn't deserve to know. Not yet.

Damien looked from me to Keith. His eyes narrowed.

"You're sleeping with the guard?" Damien accused, his jealousy flaring up despite his disgust. "Is that it? You let the help touch your freak skin?"

"You're insane," I whispered.

"You're fired," Damien barked at Keith. "Get out. And you—" He pointed at me. "Go to your room. You don't leave until I decide what to do with you."

"I am leaving," I said.

"No," Damien smiled, cruel and cold. "You aren't."

Aliana POV

Damien dragged me to my room and slammed the door, locking it from the outside.

I didn't waste time banging on the door. I didn't scream.

I threw open the window.

It was a three-story drop, but there was a sturdy trellis covered in ivy clinging to the brick. I had climbed it when I was ten. I could climb it now.

My hands shook, but I found the footholds. The ivy tore at my palms, stinging and raw, but I didn't feel it. I scrambled down, reached the ground, and sprinted toward the staff quarters.

I burst through the door.

My father was on the floor.

He was clutching his chest, his mouth open in a silent scream. His face was turning a terrifying shade of blue.

"Papa!" I screamed.

I fell to my knees beside him. No pulse. No breath.

"No, no, no." I started compressions. *One, two, three, four.* "Come on, Papa. Don't leave me."

He gasped—a shallow, rattling breath. He was still in there.

I needed the hospital. Now.

I ran out of the quarters. The station wagon was parked in the driveway. I saw the keys sitting on the hood—Keith must have left them there for me before he was escorted out.

I grabbed them.

"Going somewhere?"

Damien was standing on the porch steps. Hadley was clinging to his arm, sobbing theatrically into a tissue. Cecil stood behind them, watching like a spectator at a play.

"He's dying!" I screamed. "Damien, move! I need to get him to the ER!"

Damien didn't move. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Hadley is having a panic attack," he said calmly. "Seeing your... deformity... traumatized her. She needs the security detail to take her to the spa to calm down."

"Are you joking?" I shrieked. "My father is having a heart attack!"

"He's just an Associate," Cecil said, examining her fingernails with bored indifference. "Associates die. It's part of the job description."

"Please," I begged. I dropped to my knees on the gravel. "Please, Damien. I will do anything. I will sign the marriage contract. I will be your maid. Just let me save him."

Damien looked at me. For a second, I saw hesitation flicker in his eyes.

Then Hadley let out a loud, fake wail. "My chest hurts, Damien! I can't breathe!"

Damien's face hardened. He walked over to me and snatched the keys from my hand.

"My driver takes Hadley," he said. "Your father waits."

"He can't wait!"

Cecil stepped forward. She took the spare set of keys from her pocket.

"You want to drive so bad?" she asked.

She turned and threw the keys. They arched through the air and landed with a *plop* in the center of the decorative fountain dominating the circular driveway.

The water was green with algae and sludge.

"Fetch," Cecil said.

I didn't look at her. I didn't look at Damien.

I ran into the fountain. The water was freezing. The sludge coated my legs, ruining the uniform. I fell to my hands and knees, groping blindly in the muck.

I heard the engine of the luxury SUV start. I heard tires crunch on gravel as Damien drove Hadley away.

My fingers brushed metal.

I pulled the keys out, dripping with slime. I scrambled out of the fountain and ran to the station wagon.

I jammed the key into the door.

I looked down.

The tires were slashed. All four of them. Deep, jagged cuts made with a steak knife.

I looked up at the porch. Cecil was standing there, holding a kitchen knife. She smiled.

"Oops," she said.

A scream tore out of my throat. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul snapping.

The door to the staff quarters opened behind me. A maid stood there, tears streaming down her face.

"Ali," she whispered. "He's gone."

I dropped the keys. They hit the gravel with a dull clink.

I walked back to my father. I sat on the floor and held his cold hand.

The code says family is off-limits. The code says you take care of your own.

They had broken the code.

And now, I was going to break them.

Aliana POV

The hospital morgue smelled of bleach and finality.

I signed the papers.

*Cause of death: Cardiac Arrest.*

I knew the real cause.

*Cause of death: Crawford Arrogance.*

My phone buzzed against my hip. It was a text from the transplant coordinator.

*Ms. Rodriguez, a donor heart became available for your father twenty minutes ago. We attempted to contact you multiple times. Since the patient has expired, the organ has been reallocated.*

Twenty minutes ago.

If I hadn't been delayed by that stunt in the fountain. If the tires hadn't been slashed.

He would be alive.

I put the phone in my pocket. My hands were steady. Unnaturally steady.

I walked up to the VIP waiting room on the fourth floor. I knew they were there. Hadley's "panic attack" required the best doctors money could buy, while my father had died in the cold downstairs.

I pushed the double doors open.

Damien was sitting on a plush sofa, scrolling on his phone. Hadley was lying on a chaise lounge, idly plucking grapes from a stem.

"This stress is bad for my complexion," Hadley whined, her voice grating against the silence. "Damien, rub my feet."

Damien sighed, sliding his phone into his pocket. He reached for her foot.

I walked up to him.

He looked up, his expression bored. "Ali? Is the old man—"

I slapped him.

It wasn't just a slap. It was a collision of bone and pure, distilled rage. My palm connected with his cheek with a sound like a gunshot.

Damien's head snapped to the side. The room went dead silent.

He slowly turned back to look at me. His cheek was already blooming a vibrant red. His eyes were wide with shock that quickly morphed into a dark, dangerous fury.

"You killed him," I said. My voice was a whisper, but it sliced across the room.

Damien stood up. He towered over me. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my pulse hard enough to bruise.

"He was a servant," Damien spat. "People die. Get over it."

"You slashed the tires."

"My mother slashed the tires," he corrected, without an ounce of remorse. "And she did it to keep you here. Because you belong to us."

He dragged me toward an empty exam room adjacent to the waiting area. He kicked the door shut and pinned me against the metal counter.

"You need to learn respect, Aliana," he growled.

He reached onto a stainless steel tray of medical supplies. He picked up a needle. It was a large gauge, the kind used for drawing thick blood.

"Give me your hand."

"No."

He grabbed my left hand and slammed it onto the cold counter. He held it down with the weight of his forearm.

"You slapped me with this hand," he said, his eyes glinting with a terrifying madness. "You touched me without permission."

He raised the needle.

"Damien, don't," I said. Not begging. Warning.

He drove the needle into the back of my hand.

Pain exploded. Bright, white-hot, and sharp.

He pushed it deep, twisting it.

I didn't scream. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction. I stared right at him.

He looked down at my hand. He saw the needle sticking out of my skin.

But then, he stopped.

He was looking at the old scars on the back of my hand. The faint, white dots from the hundreds of IVs I had endured five years ago when they drained me to save him.

He frowned. He tilted his head like a confused dog.

"Why do you have track marks?" he muttered. "Are you a junkie, Ali?"

He pulled the needle out. Blood welled up, dark and thick.

"Marry me," he said, wiping the bloody needle on his expensive pants. "Marry me next week. I'll pay for a nice funeral for your dad. Mahogany casket. The works. But you serve Hadley. You apologize to her."

I looked at the blood dripping onto the floor.

*Drip. Drip. Drip.*

"Get out," I whispered.

"What?"

"Get out of my face before I rip your throat out with my teeth."

He laughed. He actually laughed. "You're cute when you're feisty. Think about it. You have nowhere else to go."

He opened the door and stormed out.

I stood there, clutching my bleeding hand.

I reached into my pocket with my good hand. I pulled out my phone.

I didn't dial 911. The police were on the Crawford payroll.

I dialed the number that had been saved as a single period in my contacts.

"He's dead," I said into the phone. "They killed him."

Anderson's voice came through the line instantly. "Where are you?"

"St. Jude's Hospital. VIP wing."

"I'm already in the lobby."

"Come get me, Anderson," I said, watching my blood pool on the tile. "And bring your gun."