The fire alarm was finally silenced by a security guard with a key. The smell of burnt magnesium lingered in the air, a harsh chemical perfume.

The room was a mess of panicked energy. Nurses were checking Asia's vitals, Deirdre was hysterically recounting the "attack" to a bewildered hospital administrator, and Arlin was on the phone, presumably with a lawyer.

Florrie stood calmly in the hallway, flanked by two guards. She hadn't been arrested, merely detained. Setting off a fire alarm was a misdemeanor, especially when the "perpetrator" was a well-known socialite who could claim emotional distress.

"Well," she said to the guards, who were carefully avoiding eye contact. "That was refreshing."

Inside the room, Asia was shivering, but not from cold. It was the shiver of being caught. Her performance of a frail victim was shattered. Boston stood by the window, his back to the room. He wasn't comforting Asia. He wasn't wringing out his shirt. He was perfectly still.

He was thinking.

"You tried to kill me!" Asia shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the doorway where Florrie had been. "Daddy! She tried to kill me!"

Arlin hung up the phone. He turned to the security chief, his eyes full of cold fury. "I want her charged. Trespassing. Reckless endangerment. I want her thrown in jail."

"Sir, with all due respect," the chief said carefully, "your daughter appears unharmed. Miss Jefferson claims she was returning property and had a... panic attack."

"A panic attack with a pyrotechnic?" Deirdre screeched.

Boston finally turned around. He ignored his screaming fiancée and her hysterical mother. His eyes were dark, calculating. He walked over to the bedside table and picked up one of the white lilies. He brought it to his nose, then looked directly at Asia.

"You always hated lilies," he said, his voice flat. "You told me the smell gave you migraines. The day of the foundation gala, you made me send back a two-thousand-dollar arrangement because it had two lily stems in it."

Asia's eyes darted side to side. "I... I didn't want to be rude to your mother. She brought them."

"My mother knows you hate lilies," Boston said. He looked at Genevieve, who suddenly looked very uncomfortable. The lie was unraveling from all sides.

"And the allergy?" Boston pressed, his voice dangerously quiet. "The one Florrie mentioned. Is it real?"

"Of course it's real! She's a sick woman!" Deirdre interjected, trying to run interference.

Boston ignored her. His gaze was locked on Asia. "Is it, Asia?"

"It's... it's a mild sensitivity," Asia stammered, her voice losing its frail, breathy quality and becoming sharp with panic. "Florrie exaggerates everything! Boston, make them take her away!"

But the spell was broken. Boston looked at the woman in the bed-her strong voice, her clear skin, the terror in her eyes that had nothing to do with illness-and he saw the trap he had almost walked into. He didn't see a dying angel. He saw a liability.

"I'm going," Florrie announced from the hallway, deciding she had seen enough. The guards let her pass.

She walked away from the room, from the wreckage she had caused. It was petty. It was theatrical.

And it was the most satisfying thing she had ever done.

"Oh, and Boston?" Florrie called out over her shoulder, not bothering to turn around. "You might want to sanitize that ring. It's been on the floor of a liar's sickroom. Fitting, really."

She walked calmly against the tide of chaos.

She felt lighter. The heavy weight that had been sitting on her chest for four years-the need to be perfect, to be accepted, to be loved by these people-was gone.

She had burned it down.

She reached the elevator bank. She pressed the down button.

She caught her reflection in the metal doors. Her hair was messy. Her makeup was smudged. Her coat smelled faintly of smoke.

She grinned.

She looked like a survivor.

"Florrie! Wait!"

The shout echoed down the hallway just as the elevator doors were opening.

Florrie sighed. She didn't turn around. She stepped into the elevator and pressed the Close Door button repeatedly.

But a hand-clad in the sleeve of an expensive suit-jammed between the doors. The safety sensors triggered, and the doors slid back open.

Boston stumbled in. He smelled of wet wool and betrayal. He looked manic.

"We need to talk," he panted.

"I think we've said everything," Florrie said, backing into the corner. "Specifically, the part where I said 'Get out' and 'I hate you'."

"The venue," Boston blurted out. "The Plaza Hotel. The Grand Ballroom. You have it reserved for the 18th."

Florrie stared at him. "Yes. For our wedding."

"I need it," Boston said. His tone had changed. It wasn't pleading anymore. It was demanding. "The press is already running with the 'Tragic Last Wish' angle. Canceling the venue now makes me look like a flake. It kills the narrative."

Florrie laughed. It was a genuine, incredulous laugh.

"You want me to give you my wedding venue to save your public image? After your fiancée just lied about a life-threatening allergy?"

"That's a family matter," Boston snapped. "This is business. The merger is in a delicate phase. I need good press. You owe me that, at least. For the years I supported you."

"I am using it," Florrie said coldly.

Boston blinked. "What? With who?"

"With no one," Florrie said. "I called the manager on the way here. The reservation was booked and paid for by my mother's trust, which, as of an hour ago, is back under my sole control. I'm converting the event."

"To what?"

"A funeral," Florrie said. Her eyes glittered. "A funeral for my relationship. Followed by a charity auction. I'm auctioning off everything you ever gave me. The proceeds go to the 'Victims of Narcissistic Abuse' foundation."

Boston's face turned purple. The vein in his forehead bulged.

"You bitch," he spat.

He lunged at her.

It happened fast. He raised his hand. It was a reflex of pure, impotent rage. He was going to slap her.

Florrie flinched, raising her arm to block the blow, her other hand fumbling for the pepper spray in her pocket.

But the blow never landed.

A hand-large, gloved in black leather-shot out from the hallway and grabbed Boston's wrist in mid-air.

It stopped Boston's arm like it had hit a steel wall.

Florrie opened her eyes.

Standing there, holding Boston's wrist in a crushing grip, was a man. He was huge. Broad shoulders, dark suit, earpiece.

"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Travis," the bodyguard said. His voice was gravel.

Boston gasped, trying to pull his arm back. The bodyguard didn't budge.

"Who are you?" Boston yelped. "Let go of me!"

"You're making a scene," the bodyguard said calmly. He shoved Boston backward.

Boston stumbled out of the elevator, slipping and landing hard on his ass in the hallway.

The bodyguard stepped into the elevator. He stood in front of Florrie, blocking her from Boston's view.

He pressed the Lobby button.

The doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of Boston scrambling to his feet.

Florrie stared at the man's broad back.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "Did... did my father send you?"

The man didn't turn around. He kept his eyes on the numbers counting down.

"Just a concerned citizen, Miss Jefferson," he said.

"You're not a citizen," Florrie said. "You're private security. Who pays you?"

The man turned his head slightly. "A friend. Someone who doesn't like seeing women hit."

A friend.

Florrie's mind flashed to the silver locket in her safe, to a boy's voice cracking with fear so many years ago. It couldn't be. Could it?

The elevator dinged at the lobby.

"Have a good evening, Miss Jefferson," the bodyguard said. He stepped out and turned left, disappearing toward the parking garage.

Florrie stood there for a moment, her heart pounding.

It was impossible. He was on the other side of the world. And yet...

She shook her head. She couldn't think about that now. She had a war to finish.