Hardin stepped into her personal space. He loomed over her, smelling of betrayal and exertion.

"Don't look at me like that, you frumpy mute," he spat. Saliva flecked from his lip.

He raised a hand. It was a telegraphed move, a clumsy attempt to shove her shoulder and assert dominance.

Blake's eyes tracked the trajectory of his palm. The world seemed to slow down. She saw the tension in his bicep, the shift of weight to his front foot.

She didn't think. The Valkyrie programming didn't require thought. It simply executed.

She sidestepped to the left. A fluid, unnatural movement that ghosted away from his touch.

Hardin stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him into the empty space where she had just been.

Blake pivoted on the ball of her foot. She drove her knee upward.

It connected with his solar plexus. A solid, wet thud.

The sound of air leaving Hardin's lungs filled the room, a desperate, wheezing gasp. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, his face turning a violent shade of red.

Carissa screamed.

"Hardin!"

She scrambled off the couch, the blanket falling away. She lunged at Blake, her manicured nails aimed like talons at Blake's face.

Blake didn't even turn her head. She caught Carissa's wrist mid-air.

She twisted.

She forced the joint against its natural rotation. Carissa yelped, her body forced to bend backward to relieve the pressure.

"Sit," Blake commanded.

She shoved Carissa. Her sister tumbled backward onto the mattress, bouncing once, eyes wide with terror and confusion.

Hardin tried to stand up. His face was contorted with humiliation.

Blake kicked the back of his knee. A precision impact. The leg buckled, and he went down again, hitting the floor hard.

She grabbed a silk robe from the floor and threw it over his head.

"Cover up. You're a public health hazard," she deadpanned.

She walked to the large vanity mirror. She checked her neck. No marks. Her pulse was steady in her jugular.

"You're insane! I'll have you committed!" Hardin yelled from the floor, struggling to untangle himself from the silk.

Blake turned. She leaned against the dresser, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Assault? No. Self-defense," she stated calmly.

"Against a naked, unarmed man?" Carissa screeched from the bed.

"Against a sexual predator and his accomplice," Blake corrected.

She picked up her wedding ring from the nightstand. She held it up to the moonlight, inspecting the stone.

"Cheap cut. Just like your excuses," she muttered.

She flicked her thumb. The ring spun through the air and hit Hardin squarely in the forehead.

"My lawyers will be in touch by morning," she announced.

She turned toward the door. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving a cold, sharp clarity in its wake.

Blake reached for the brass doorknob. The metal was cool under her palm.

"You can't leave! You're a Harrison!" Carissa yelled. Her voice was shrill, desperate to regain control of the narrative.

Blake paused. She didn't turn her body, just looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed.

"And you, Carissa? What are you?"

Carissa flinched. She pulled the sheet tighter around her throat.

"I'm the woman he loves," Carissa said defiantly.

Blake laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that scraped against her throat.

"You're a PR nightmare waiting to happen."

Hardin struggled to his feet, clutching the robe closed. He was still wheezing slightly.

"Don't talk to her like that," he growled.

Blake stepped away from the door and moved closer to the bed, invading Carissa's bubble.

"Does the press know about your mother, Carissa?"

Carissa's face drained of all color. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"The housekeeper? In the guest wing?" Blake continued, her voice low and dangerous.

She recited an address. A small, rundown apartment complex in Queens.

"Shut up!" Carissa screamed. She covered her ears with her hands.

Hardin looked between them. His brow furrowed. Confusion replaced the anger. He didn't know.

Blake caught the look. A small, cruel smile touched her lips.

"Oh, she didn't tell you? She's an illegitimate child."

"A bastard posing as a debutante," Blake clarified.

Hardin's expression shifted. He looked at Carissa, really looked at her, and Blake saw the disgust curdle in his eyes. Status was everything to a Harrison.

Carissa began to sob. Real, ugly tears this time.

A wave of dizziness hit Blake. The awakening came with a cost. Her brain felt like it was expanding against her skull.

She stumbled slightly, gripping the doorframe to stay upright.

Hardin saw the weakness. He took a step forward.

"You're sick. You need a doctor," he said, reaching for her.

Blake forced her spine straight. She bit the tip of her tongue until she tasted copper. The pain focused her.

"Just a headache from the trash fumes," she quipped.

She stepped into the hall and slammed the heavy oak door in their faces.

She leaned against the corridor wall for a second, exhaling sharply. Her system was rebooting, but she had to move.

Blake pushed off the wall. She moved rapidly down the corridor, her bare feet silent on the runner rug.

Heavy boots thudded on the stairs. Security.

Hardin must have hit the panic button by the bed.

She calculated quickly. The main exit was compromised. The grand staircase would be swarming in thirty seconds.

She ducked into a servant's alcove just as a beam of light swept past the hallway entrance.

Two guards ran past, heading toward the Master Bedroom. Their radios crackled.

Blake slipped out. She moved low.

She reached the end of the hall. A window overlooked the garden.

Second floor. Fifteen-foot drop. Soft turf landing.

She undid the latch. It was stuck with layers of old paint.

She used her elbow. A sharp, jarring strike. The paint cracked. The window slid up.

A guard at the far end of the hall turned at the sound.

"Hey!"

Blake didn't hesitate. She vaulted onto the sill.

"Stop her!" the guard yelled. The distinct zap of a Taser charging filled the air.

Blake jumped.

She tucked her body into a tight roll. Gravity took over. The wind rushed past her ears.

She hit the lawn. She rolled instantly to disperse the impact. Mud stained the white silk of her nightgown.

She sprang up. Her left ankle stung, but it held weight.

Searchlights swept the grounds from the roof, cutting through the darkness like blades.

She stuck to the shadows of the manicured hedges.

She reached the perimeter wall. Eight feet of stone.

She found the trellis she used to stare at sadly during her lonely afternoons.

Now, it was a ladder. She climbed swiftly, ignoring the thorns tearing at her palms.

At the top, she paused. She surveyed the road.

A black SUV with tinted windows patrolled the perimeter.

She timed the gap. Ten seconds.

She dropped down the other side to the public sidewalk.

She merged into the darkness of the tree line across the street.

Rain began to fall. Cold, heavy drops that washed away her tracks and soaked her to the bone.

She disappeared into the night, leaving the Duchess persona behind in the mud.