Briana's bare feet slapped loudly against the pristine marble floor. She swayed her hips exaggeratedly, walking straight to the sofa and dropping her weight heavily onto the cushion directly across from Kathleen.

Kathleen instantly pressed a manicured hand over her nose, leaning back as if Briana's cheap perfume was toxic gas.

The butler rushed forward, his face pale. "Miss, you cannot be here-"

"Clark told me to stay here!" Briana shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly in the cavernous hall. "Who the hell is gonna touch me?"

At the sound of Clark's name, the polite mask on Kathleen's face cracked. Her jaw tightened. She looked down at Briana with absolute superiority. "And who exactly are you?"

Briana rolled her eyes dramatically. She grabbed the hem of her coffee-stained sequin dress and hiked it up her thigh. "Clark picked this out for me last night. In his car."

The implication hit Kathleen like a physical slap. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her teacup.

Kathleen let out a cold, condescending laugh. She unclasped her limited-edition Birkin bag, pulled out a checkbook, and scribbled a number.

She tossed the check onto the glass coffee table. It fluttered down like trash. "Take the money and get out. Don't dirty Clark's rugs."

Briana stared at the check. The memories of Kathleen stealing her family's company, her life, her future, boiled over.

A sharp, hysterical laugh burst from Briana's throat. It grew louder, echoing off the high ceilings, sounding completely unhinged.

The hair on Kathleen's arms stood up. "Guards! Throw this trash out!" she snapped.

Two massive bodyguards stepped forward.

Before they could reach her, Briana lunged. She grabbed the cup of Earl Grey tea from the table. With a vicious flick of her wrist, she sent the brown liquid splashing directly across Kathleen's pristine white gown and shocked face.

Kathleen gasped, a shrill, humiliated shriek tearing from her throat as the tea ruined her perfect makeup.

The guards lunged. Briana twisted her body, slipping out of their grasp like a snake. She grabbed a heavy crystal fruit bowl and hurled it at the closest guard's chest, knocking him back.

Chaos erupted. Briana sprinted across the hall toward a terrified maid who was holding a heavy mop bucket.

The bucket was filled with the day's filthy, grey mop water, thick with dirt and smelling of bleach and grime.

Briana snatched the bucket by the handle. Her eyes were dead, locked onto her target.

Kathleen was still shrieking on the sofa, wiping at her burning eyes.

Briana stepped up, raised the heavy bucket, and dumped the entire contents directly over Kathleen's head.

The filthy sludge ruined the custom white silk gown instantly. Kathleen sat frozen, dripping with grey mud, looking like a drowned rat pulled from a sewer.

The absolute humiliation shattered Kathleen's sanity. She let out a feral screech and lunged at Briana, hands outstretched to claw her face.

Briana was ready. She feigned a stumble, falling backward. As Kathleen leaned over her, Briana brought her knee up and drove it brutally into Kathleen's kneecap.

Kathleen cried out, her legs buckling. She crashed to her knees.

Briana instantly flipped their positions, straddling Kathleen's waist. She raised her hand and delivered a vicious, ringing slap to Kathleen's cheek. Then another.

Smack! Smack!

"That's for Clark!" Briana screamed, masking her personal vengeance as jealous rage. "He thinks you're disgusting!"

The bodyguards finally broke through the chaos. They grabbed Briana by the arms and violently hauled her off Kathleen.

Kathleen was sobbing hysterically, clutching her red, swollen face. The stench of the dirty water radiated off her. She couldn't even formulate a threat. She shoved the butler away, covered her face, and ran out the front doors into the night.

The roar of her sports car engine faded into the distance.

The grand hall was dead silent, save for Briana's heavy breathing. She was pinned to the floor by two guards, her hair a mess, but a wide, euphoric smile stretched across her face.

Up on the second-floor balcony, Clark stood in a black silk robe. He looked down at the wreckage, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Jairo stood beside him. "Should I have her thrown out, sir?"

Clark watched the feral, smiling girl pinned to his floor. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved upward.

He raised a hand and flicked his fingers. "Let her go."

The bodyguards immediately released Briana and stepped back.

Briana pushed herself off the floor. She dusted off her ruined sequin dress, completely ignoring the terrified stares of the maids.

She turned and walked barefoot up the grand oak staircase, her steps heavy and deliberate. She walked straight to the second floor and pushed open the heavy double doors to Clark's study.

The room smelled of rich tobacco and leather. Clark was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers.

Briana walked right up to the desk, planted her hands on the polished wood, and leaned in. "I did my job. Now pay up."

Clark's eyes dragged over her smeared lipstick and the faint scratch on her neck. A rare, genuine gleam of amusement flickered in his cold eyes.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a solid black titanium credit card, and slid it across the desk. Unlimited limit.

Briana snatched the card and shoved it down her cleavage. She opened her mouth to demand a secure room.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently against her thigh. She had found a charger in the guest room and finally powered the cracked-screen device back on while scrubbing the grime from her skin. Now it buzzed with an incoming message.

She frowned and pulled it out. It was a picture message from Doyle.

She clicked open the image. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. All the blood drained from her face in a single second.

It was a photo of Eleonora, her mother in this life. She was tied to a rusted pipe with thick, coarse rope. Her face was a mass of purple bruises, her lip split open. Her worn sweater was soaked in fresh blood.

Below the photo was a text: Bring the money in 30 minutes, or you can come collect the bitch's corpse.

Even though this body's memories were filled with the trauma of being sold by a deadbeat father, Eleonora was different. Eleonora's eyes, always filled with sorrow but never lacking in gentle care, were the only source of warmth the original Briana had ever known in that broken home. That profound, inherited sense of familial love seared into Briana's soul like a branding iron. A wave of primal terror and blinding rage hit Briana so hard her knees buckled slightly. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. The phone rattled against her palm.

Clark's eyes sharpened instantly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "What is it?"

Briana's brain scrambled. Clark was a ruthless businessman. He wouldn't risk his men for a slum dispute. If she asked for help, he would see her as a liability.

She hit the power button, turning the screen black. She forced her facial muscles into a stiff, unnatural smile. "Nothing. Just an old debt collector trying to scare me."

Clark's eyes narrowed. He stared at her white knuckles gripping the phone. He didn't believe a word of it.

"I need to go clean up," Briana blurted out, spinning around.

She didn't look back. She forced her weight onto her good leg, dragging her throbbing ankle as she limped frantically down the hall, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

Clark stared at the empty doorway, his jaw clenched tight. He hit the intercom button on his desk. "Jairo. Track her phone. Now."

Briana burst into her guest room. She tore off the sequin dress, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.

She ran into the bathroom, ripped open the first aid kit, and grabbed a pair of heavy medical scissors and a roll of bandages. She shoved them into her pocket.

She didn't go to the front door. She opened the window, grabbed the thick metal drainage pipe, and slid down into the dark bushes below, landing heavily. A sickening jolt of pain shot up her injured ankle, forcing a choked gasp from her throat, but she swallowed the agony.

She dodged the security patrols, scaled the low stone wall at the back of the estate, and dropped into the shadows of Beverly Hills.

Ten minutes later, Jairo walked into the study. "She jumped the wall, sir. GPS shows her heading straight for Skid Row."

Clark's eyes flashed with dark fury. She had just secured his protection, and now she was running off to get herself killed.

He snapped the unlit cigar in half and threw it in the trash. He grabbed his trench coat from the chair and strode toward the door.

He was going to find out exactly what made this calculating woman lose her mind.

The taxi slammed on its brakes at the corner of a pitch-black street in East LA. The driver snatched the cash from Briana's hand and sped off like he was fleeing a war zone.

Briana ignored the freezing drizzle. She ran through an alley choked with garbage and stagnant water, bursting through the doors of a rotting apartment building that reeked of urine and decay.

She took the concrete stairs two at a time, her lungs burning, until she reached the third floor. She stopped in front of a peeling wooden door.

Inside, she could hear Doyle's obnoxious laughter and the high-pitched giggling of his mistress, Gretchen. There was no panic. No hostage situation.

The last thread of Briana's sanity snapped.

She took two steps back, braced her good leg against the floorboards, and threw her entire body weight forward, ramming her shoulder into the lock with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The rotting wood splintered with a loud crack. The door flew open, slamming violently against the interior wall.

Doyle, sitting on a stained sofa with Gretchen on his lap, jumped out of his skin. He dropped the stack of dirty bills he was counting.

When he saw Briana, his shock morphed into ugly rage. He grabbed an empty beer bottle from the table and pointed it at her. "You ungrateful bitch! You put Preston in the hospital! The gang is after me because of you!"

Briana's eyes swept the tiny, filthy room. Eleonora wasn't there.

Murderous intent flooded her veins. She reached behind her and pushed the broken door shut. Click.

Doyle sneered, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. He lunged at her, raising the bottle to smash it over her head.

Briana didn't flinch. She ducked under his clumsy swing. She pivoted, driving her elbow brutally into his soft, bloated stomach.

Doyle gasped, all the air leaving his lungs. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

Before he could recover, Briana grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair. She yanked his head down and slammed his face directly into the glass-covered coffee table.

The glass shattered completely. Doyle screamed-a wet, gurgling sound-and collapsed to the floor, his face a bloody mess.

Gretchen shrieked in terror. She scrambled off the sofa and crawled toward the door.

Briana lunged like a predator. She grabbed Gretchen by her blonde extensions and dragged her backward across the floor.

Gretchen thrashed wildly, her long acrylic nails scratching deep, bloody lines down Briana's forearm.

Briana didn't feel it. She slammed her knee into Gretchen's back, pinning her flat against the floorboards. She reached out and grabbed the largest, sharpest shard of the broken beer bottle.

She pressed the jagged edge hard against Gretchen's carotid artery.

Gretchen froze instantly.

"I'm only going to ask this once," Briana whispered, her voice a dead, hollow sound that belonged in a graveyard. "Where is my mother?"

She pressed the glass a millimeter deeper. A thin line of blood welled up and trickled down Gretchen's neck. A warm, pungent smell filled the air as Gretchen lost control of her bladder.

"The South Side!" Gretchen sobbed hysterically. "The abandoned auto shop! They locked her in the basement!"

Briana's eyes went cold. She flipped the medical scissors in her hand and brought the heavy metal handle down hard against the back of Gretchen's skull. The woman went limp.

Briana stood up. She walked over to Doyle, who was moaning on the floor. She dug into his pockets and pulled out a set of keys with a Ford logo.

She looked down at his right hand. Without a change in expression, she raised her boot and stomped down hard on his fingers.

Three bones snapped like dry twigs. Doyle passed out from the pain.

Briana stepped over the bodies, walked out the door, and ran down to the alley. She found the rusted pickup truck, jammed the key in the ignition, and tore out onto the street, heading south.