Felton turned on his heel and walked toward the grand staircase. He jerked his head, signaling Augustina to follow.

Augustina pulled the letter opener from the wood and tossed it aside. She followed him up to the second-floor mahogany study.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them, instantly cutting off the chaotic noise from the living room below.

Felton walked over to his humidor. He pulled out a Cuban cigar and clipped the end, but he didn't light it.

He turned around and looked at Augustina. His eyes scanned her cheap, wet hoodie like he was appraising a piece of damaged livestock.

"The Hogan pharmaceutical company is facing bankruptcy," Felton stated bluntly, dropping the facade of a caring father. "The supply chain is broken. We need a hundred million dollars in capital to complete a merger."

He tossed the cigar onto his desk.

"The investor is the master of Blackwood Manor. The condition for the cash injection is a marriage. He wants a daughter from the Hogan family."

Felton walked closer, his tone dripping with cruelty. "The man was caught in a fire. He's disfigured. He's confined to a wheelchair. Rumor has it his temper is so violent he tortures his staff. He is a monster."

Felton sneered. "I am absolutely not sending Kayleigh into that hellhole. She is meant for better things."

He leaned his hands on the desk. "You want out? Fine. You take Kayleigh's place. You marry him, and I will sign the severance papers."

Augustina stood perfectly still.

When she heard the name Blackwood Manor, her heart slammed violently against her ribs.

Charles Moses.

The man who had kissed her dead forehead. The tyrant who had buried her murderers alive.

She dug her fingernails into her palms to stop her hands from shaking. She forced her face to remain completely blank.

She pretended to hesitate, narrowing her eyes. "I want more."

"I want a public statement in the Times," Augustina demanded. "Declaring that we have severed all adoptive and biological ties. And I want the original, untampered copy of the DNA report Felton Hogan used to identify me. And the fifty dollars cash I had in my pocket when your men dragged me out of The Warrens."

Felton let out a sharp, mocking laugh. He thought she was making a desperate, pathetic attempt to salvage her pride.

"Done," he said.

Felton picked up the phone on his desk and dialed his private lawyer. He ordered the documents drafted immediately.

Thirty minutes later, a sweating lawyer rushed into the study, clutching a leather briefcase. He pulled out the freshly printed contracts.

Augustina picked up a heavy Montblanc pen. She read every single line of the liability waiver and the severance agreement.

Satisfied, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name with aggressive, sharp strokes.

Felton signed his portion. He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick manila folder containing the falsified DNA documents along with a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and tossed them onto the desk like garbage.

Augustina snatched the file and the money. She squeezed the paper in her fist. The sharp edges of the folder dug into her palm, the slight pain grounding her in reality.

"If this merger fails because you piss off that monster," Felton warned, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "you will die a very ugly death."

Augustina folded her copy of the contract and shoved it into her hoodie pocket. She turned and walked out without another word.

She went straight to her cramped attic room. She pulled a battered black duffel bag from under the narrow bed.

She didn't pack a single item bought by the Hogan family. She only threw in a few worn-out shirts and jeans she had bought herself.

Ten minutes later, she walked down the grand staircase, the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

Cindy and Kayleigh stood in the foyer. They watched her leave, their faces twisted into identical, triumphant smiles.

Augustina pushed open the heavy front doors. She stepped out into the freezing Los Angeles rain, not looking back once.

Early the next morning, a black Mercedes G63 with no license plates idled on the side of the road.

Augustina climbed into the back seat.

The driver, Gus, had been ordered to take her to the marriage exchange. He kept glancing at her through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of contempt.

"You really threw your life away," Gus sneered, tapping the steering wheel. "Going to serve a crippled freak. Hope you enjoy pushing a wheelchair for the rest of your miserable life."

Augustina leaned her head against the cold window. She watched the thick fog rolling in from the hills, treating Gus like he didn't exist.

The G63 drove out of the sunny city limits and entered the deepest, heavily forested private sectors of Beverly Hills.

The GPS screen on the dashboard suddenly flickered and turned to static. The signal was completely jammed.

Towering, century-old redwoods lined the narrow road, blocking out the sun. The temperature inside the car dropped noticeably.

Gus stopped talking. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. The eerie silence of the woods was suffocating.

The SUV finally stopped in front of massive black wrought-iron gates. The metal was forged into the shape of thorns and black ravens.

There were no security guards in sight. Only military-grade cameras with blinking red lenses tracking the vehicle's movements.

With a heavy, grinding screech of metal, the gates slowly slid open on their own.

Gus swallowed hard. He put the car in park, absolutely refusing to drive onto the property.

"Get out," Gus muttered, his voice shaking. "I'm not going in there."

Augustina grabbed her battered duffel bag. She pushed the door open and hopped down onto the gravel.

The second her feet hit the ground, Gus slammed his foot on the gas. The G63 spun its tires and sped away like it was fleeing a war zone.

Augustina stood alone in the thick fog. She adjusted the strap of her bag and started walking up the long, black gravel driveway.

Ten minutes later, the fog parted.

A massive, imposing structure loomed before her. It was a blend of gothic architecture and a modern fortress.

The exterior walls were a cold, unforgiving charcoal gray. Every window was tinted black, giving the mansion an aura of absolute, suffocating silence.

An elderly man in a pristine black tailcoat stood at the top of the stone steps.

It was Mr. Albright, the British butler. He wore white gloves and stood with flawless, rigid posture.

Albright offered a shallow bow. His voice was crisp and devoid of warmth.

"Welcome, Miss Osborne."

Augustina's eyes flickered. He called her Osborne. The surname she used in the slums, not Hogan. Charles's intelligence network had already stripped away her fake identity. He didn't recognize her as a Hogan.

She nodded calmly and handed her cheap bag to a waiting footman.

Albright led her through the massive, vaulted foyer. Her footsteps echoed loudly against the marble floors.

The walls were lined with dark, abstract oil paintings. The air smelled strongly of cold cedarwood and old paper.

She was led to a guest room at the far end of the second-floor hallway. Not the master suite.

"The Master is currently handling overseas affairs," Albright informed her, standing in the doorway. "He will not be receiving you for a few days."

Albright's eyes hardened slightly. "You are permitted in your room and the first-floor dining hall. The West Wing and the basement are strictly forbidden. Do not wander."

Without waiting for a response, Albright turned and pulled the heavy door shut.

Augustina looked around the room. It was ten times the size of her attic at the Hogan estate, but it felt like an icebox.

She walked over to the window. Down in the courtyard, men in black tactical gear were patrolling with massive Dobermans.

A slow, determined smile touched her lips. She was exactly where she needed to be.

Three days passed. Augustina existed in the massive manor like a ghost.

She stayed within her boundaries. She never once caught a glimpse of Charles Moses. The second night, exhaustion claimed her in the bathtub. She woke with a start hours later, not in the cold porcelain tub, but tangled in the silk sheets of her bed, a faint scent of cedarwood lingering in the air. She had dismissed it as a strange dream, until now.

On the morning of the fourth day, a cold, miserable drizzle fell over Los Angeles.

Augustina walked down to the cavernous first-floor dining room at exactly eight o'clock. She sat at the very end of the long mahogany table.

A maid named Brenda Boggs marched into the room. She wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes that squeaked against the floorboards.

Brenda carried a silver tray. She slammed it down onto the table right in front of Augustina. The silverware rattled loudly.

Augustina lifted the silver cloche.

Underneath sat a bowl of cold oatmeal. A thick, rubbery skin had formed over the top.

Next to it were two slices of burnt, blackened toast and a cup of lukewarm, bitter black coffee with no cream.

Augustina slowly lifted her eyes. She stared quietly at Brenda.

The corners of Brenda's mouth twitched downward. Her eyes dragged over Augustina's cheap cotton dress with undisguised disgust.

Growing up in The Warrens had taught Augustina how to read micro-expressions perfectly.

Brenda looked at her like she was trash. A pathetic throwaway bride that even a crippled monster didn't want to touch.

Augustina didn't yell. She didn't throw the bowl.

She picked up the heavy silver spoon. She tapped it gently against the hardened crust of the oatmeal.

"Did the kitchen go bankrupt?" Augustina asked, her voice perfectly level. "Or can the manor no longer afford the gas bill to heat the stove?"

Brenda let out a short, fake laugh. She crossed her arms, her tone dripping with arrogance.

"The head chef only prepares hot meals for the Master," Brenda replied. "For a temporary guest like you, this is more than enough."

Temporary guest.

That was the label the staff had given her.

Augustina dropped the spoon.

Clink.

The sharp sound echoed off the high ceiling.

She stood up. Brenda was taller in her thick-soled shoes, but the sudden shift in Augustina's aura sucked the air out of the room.

Augustina took a slow step forward. Her eyes were dead and cold.

"I can skip a meal," Augustina said softly. "But I do not eat pig slop."

Brenda flinched at the intensity in her eyes. She stumbled back a half-step, her hip bumping into a dining chair.

Humiliated by her own reaction, Brenda's face flushed red. She muttered a filthy curse word under her breath, specifically referencing the whores in The Warrens.

Augustina's eyes darkened. Her hand shot out, gripping the edge of the mahogany table. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She didn't strike the maid.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tiny red light blinking in the shadows near the ceiling molding. A security camera.

Someone was watching. Let's see how the master of the house reacts to this little show, she thought, her lips curving into a barely perceptible, icy smirk.

Augustina leaned in, her face inches from Brenda's ear.

"This is your first and last warning," Augustina whispered, her voice a lethal hiss. "If my coffee is cold tomorrow morning, I will force you to swallow the glass pot whole."

She pulled back, turned around, and walked out of the dining room without looking back. She made sure her posture was perfectly straight, knowing the silent red eye of the camera followed her every move.

Brenda stood frozen, her face pale, but her eyes burned with malicious calculation.