The Plaza Hotel glittered like a jewel box around me, crystal chandeliers casting golden light across Manhattan's elite. I smoothed my hands down the midnight blue silk of my gown, a dress I'd chosen specifically to complement Dominic's eyes. Tonight was supposed to be our crowning achievement—my husband's official introduction as CEO of Rogers Holdings.

"Are you ready?" I whispered, reaching up to adjust Dominic's tie. The knot was already perfect, but I needed to touch him, to reassure him. To reassure myself.

Dominic shifted uncomfortably under my touch. "I think so."

Something in his voice made me pause. I studied his face—the face I'd woken up to every morning for three years. His normally confident features were drawn tight, and tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool air conditioning.

"You're nervous," I said, reaching into my clutch for a handkerchief. "It's normal. This is a big night."

He nodded, but his eyes darted to his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Again. The third time in five minutes.

"Who's texting you?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

"Just work stuff." He slipped the phone back into his jacket without showing me. "Last-minute details for tomorrow."

I wanted to press further, but August Rogers—my father—caught my eye from across the room. He nodded slightly, signaling it was almost time. The orchestra transitioned to a new piece, and the crowd quieted.

"Your father's about to introduce you," I said, straightening Dominic's already immaculate lapels. "Remember what we practiced?"

"Priscilla." Dominic's voice was strange, strained. "I—"

"Don't thank me," I interrupted with a smile. "We're partners, remember? This is our dream."

He swallowed hard and nodded, but something cold settled in my stomach. Before I could examine the feeling, my father tapped the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," August Rogers boomed, commanding the room with the same authority he'd used to build our empire. "Thank you for joining us tonight. It gives me tremendous pleasure to introduce the next chapter of Rogers Holdings—my son-in-law and your new CEO, Dominic Rivera!"

Applause erupted around us. Dominic squeezed my hand once before walking toward the stage. I watched him go, my chest swelling with pride. From scholarship student to CEO—we'd built this together.

Then came the scream.

It cut through the applause like a knife, raw and primal. Heads turned toward the grand entrance where security guards were suddenly scrambling.

"Stop! You can't go in there!"

"Let me through! I need to see him!"

My blood turned to ice as a figure pushed past the guards. A woman—her hair wild, her makeup smeared, wearing what looked like a wedding dress torn and jagged at the hem. But it was her eyes that froze me in place—wild, desperate, burning with hatred.

"Dominic!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the marble columns. "Dominic, where are you?"

The crowd parted like water around a stone. Champagne glasses paused midway to lips. Conversations died instantly.

"I'm sorry, miss," one security guard said, reaching for her arm. "You need to leave."

"No!" She yanked away from him, her gaze finally locking on Dominic frozen at the edge of the stage. "Dominic! Tell them! Tell them who I am!"

My husband's face drained of color. He wasn't looking at the woman—he was looking at me, his expression unreadable.

"Who is she?" I whispered, but he didn't answer.

The woman's eyes found mine next, and something even colder than before washed over me. She knew me. She hated me.

"You!" she spat, lunging forward with surprising speed. "You stole my life!"

Before anyone could react, she reached into the folds of her ragged dress and pulled out a small glass vial. The liquid inside caught the light—clear, innocent-looking.

"You think you're so perfect," she hissed, uncorking it with trembling fingers. "Priscilla Rogers, the precious heiress who can have anything she wants."

I tried to step back, but my heels caught in the hem of my gown. "Security—"

The word hadn't left my lips before she was there, pressing close enough that I could smell her perfume—cheap, cloying—and see the tears streaking her mascara.

"Except you can't have him," she whispered. "Not really."

Then she flung the contents of the vial directly at my face.

Pain exploded across my skin like fire. I heard screaming—my own—as something hot and corrosive ate into my flesh. Smoke rose from my cheeks, my nose, my lips. The world tilted sideways as I collapsed to the marble floor.

Through the haze of agony, I reached out blindly. "Dominic..."

He was there, just steps away. Our eyes met through the smoke and tears and chemicals burning my vision.

Then he stepped back.

Not toward me. Back. His hands raised to protect his tuxedo as if my pain might stain the fabric.

"Get it off me," he gasped, dancing away from where I writhed on the floor. "Don't let it touch me!"

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was my husband's polished shoes, retreating rapidly across the ballroom floor.

The world dissolved into chaos around me. Through the haze of burning chemicals and tears, I heard screams—mine, hers, everyone's—blending into a single discordant note.

"Get her!" Someone shouted. "She's got a weapon!"

I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me back from the woman who'd destroyed my face. Security guards in black suits swarmed around us, their movements a blur through my smoke-filled vision.

"Ma'am, stay down," one guard commanded, his voice urgent but professional.

The woman—Madelyn, I would later learn—thrashed wildly in the grip of two security officers. Her wedding dress tore further as she fought, fabric ripping like paper in her desperate struggle.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, her voice raw with hysteria. "He's mine! He's always been mine!"

I pressed my palms against my burning face, feeling the skin blister beneath my touch. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever experienced—like dipping my face in acid and fire.

"Where's Dominic?" I gasped, trying to orient myself in the chaos. "Dominic!"

I couldn't see him. My eyes, already damaged by the chemicals, strained to find his familiar silhouette among the crowd of concerned faces and flashing camera phones.

"Priscilla." His voice came from somewhere to my left, but when I reached toward it, my fingers found only empty air. "I'm here."

But he wasn't. Not really. I could hear the retreat in his tone, the careful distance he was putting between himself and my ruined face.

"Help me," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "It hurts so much."

Someone grabbed my shoulders—not Dominic's familiar touch, but a stranger's hands, gentle but firm.

"You need to stay still," a woman's voice said. "Don't touch your face. The paramedics are coming."

I fought against her restraint. "Dominic!" I called again, louder this time. "Where are you?"

There was no answer.

---

They moved me to a private room somewhere behind the ballroom—a small office repurposed for medical emergencies. The paramedics were still en route, but someone had brought ice packs and sterile gauze.

"Your husband's been notified," a hotel manager said, hovering nervously by the door. "He's... handling the situation out front."

Handling the situation. Not with me. Not by my side where he belonged.

I reached blindly for my clutch, remembering my phone inside. "My purse," I whispered. "Please."

A kind-faced woman—another guest, I realized—handed me my bag. I fumbled with the clasp, my damaged fingers trembling.

"Let me help," she offered, but I shook my head.

This was something I needed to do myself.

"Voice call," I said, activating my phone's voice command. "Allison Rogers."

The phone dialed, ringing once, twice, three times. Each second stretched like an eternity.

"Pick up," I breathed. "Please pick up."

"Allie speaking." My sister's voice, warm and familiar, broke through the fog of pain.

"Allison," I sobbed, relief washing over me. "I need you."

"What's wrong? Priscilla, what happened?" The concern in her voice sharpened instantly.

"I'm hurt. Badly hurt." I struggled to find words that wouldn't sound as pathetic as I felt. "There was an attack at the gala. Some woman... she threw something at me."

"Chemicals," the hotel manager interjected quietly. "We think it was some kind of acid."

"Acid?" Allison's voice rose in horror. "Oh my God, Priscilla. Where are you now?"

"They're taking me to the hospital." I pressed the ice pack harder against my face, welcoming the numbing cold. "I need you there. Please."

"Of course. I'm coming right now." There was a rustling sound on the other end—Allison moving quickly. "Which hospital?"

---

"Allison?" Her husband's voice called from somewhere in their brownstone. "Who's on the phone?"

"It's Priscilla," Allison replied, her voice tight with urgency as she stroked her swollen belly protectively. "There's been an attack at the gala."

I heard footsteps approaching the phone. "Is everything okay? What happened?"

"James, I'll explain later." Allison's voice was already moving away from the receiver. "I need to get to the hospital now."

"The driver's not answering his phone," James said, following her down the stairs. "Allison, wait. You can't drive in your condition."

"I don't have a choice!" She grabbed her keys from the entryway table. "Priscilla needs me."

"Then wait for me to call another car service—"

"No time." Allison was already at the door, one hand supporting her lower back, the other cradling her belly. "I'll be fine. I'll call you from the hospital."

She stepped out into the night, unaware that a figure lurked in the shadows across the street, watching her every move.

The hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I drifted in and out of consciousness. The paramedics had given me something for the pain—morphine, maybe—but it only dulled the edges of the agony clawing at my face.

"We're almost there, Miss Rogers," the driver called back. "Your sister should be meeting us at the entrance."

Allison. My heart lifted slightly at the thought of her familiar presence. She'd always been my anchor in storms, even when she was the one needing protection.

Through the small window separating the back of the ambulance from the driver's compartment, I saw the hospital's emergency entrance come into view. The automatic doors slid open, waiting for us.

"Where is she?" I mumbled, my damaged lips making speech painful. "Is Allison here?"

"I don't see her yet," the paramedic beside me said, checking my vitals. "But she'll be inside. We'll get you taken care of."

The ambulance slowed as we approached the entrance. Then I heard it—the screech of tires on asphalt, loud and sudden.

"What's that?" I tried to sit up, but the paramedic gently pressed me back.

"Stay still, Miss Rogers."

Through the side window, I caught a glimpse of a black van swerving wildly into the ambulance bay. It cut off our path to the entrance, stopping at an angle that blocked our view of the hospital doors.

"Who the hell is that?" the driver muttered, leaning on his horn.

The van's side door slid open with a metallic scrape. Two men in dark clothing jumped out, followed by—

"Oh God," I breathed, recognizing the wild hair and torn wedding dress. "It's her."

Madelyn Boyd stood in the harsh hospital lighting, her face twisted with triumph. Behind her, another figure emerged—my sister Allison, her hands cradling her belly protectively.

"Allison!" I screamed, trying to stand despite the restraints on the gurney. "Run! Get away from her!"

But it was too late. Madelyn's hand flashed up, something metallic glinting in the light. The sound of impact was sickening—a dull thud as metal connected with flesh.

Allison crumpled to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.

"No!" The word tore from my throat as I fought against the restraints. "Allison! ALLISON!"

The paramedics were moving now, one reaching for the radio while the other prepared to exit the ambulance. But they were too slow.

The men from the van approached our vehicle with purposeful strides. One of them pulled something from his jacket—a small canister with a nozzle.

"Gas," the driver whispered, his voice tight with fear. "Everyone stay calm."

The world went blurry as the gas entered the cabin. I heard coughing—mine, the driver's, the paramedics'—as consciousness slipped away.

---

I woke to motion and darkness. The ambulance was gone, replaced by the metal floor of what felt like a van. My hands were bound behind my back, and each bump in the road sent fresh waves of pain through my damaged face.

"Priscilla." Allison's voice, weak and strained, came from somewhere beside me. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," I whispered, trying to orient myself in the darkness. "Allison, are you hurt? Is the baby—"

"I think we're okay," she said, her voice trembling. "But Priscilla, who is she? What does she want?"

Before I could answer, harsh laughter cut through the darkness. Madelyn's voice came from the front of the van, where she sat in the passenger seat.

"Oh, she doesn't know?" Madelyn's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Your precious sister doesn't know that her brother-in-law has been fucking me for three years?"

I felt Allison stiffen beside me.

"Three years," Madelyn continued, her words slurring slightly. "Three years of 'cancer treatments.' That's what he told you the money was for, right? Poor Madelyn's medical bills?"

My blood turned to ice as understanding dawned.

"Those were my payments," she laughed. "For being his real wife. For giving him what you never could."

"That's not true," I whispered, but doubt had already taken root.

"Oh, but it is." Madelyn turned in her seat, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Ask me anything about him. Anything intimate. I bet I know things about your husband that you don't."

"Stop," I begged, tears mixing with the chemicals on my face.

"Does he still have that little birthmark on his thigh?" she asked conversationally. "The one that looks like a crescent moon? Does he still moan when you touch it just right?"

Allison's sharp intake of breath told me she recognized the accuracy of Madelyn's words.

"Or how about the scar on his shoulder?" Madelyn continued, warming to her subject. "From when we went hiking in Colorado? The one he told you came from a childhood accident?"

Each detail was a knife twisting deeper. How did she know these things? How much of our marriage had been a lie?

"You're lying," I insisted, but my voice lacked conviction.

Madelyn laughed again, the sound echoing in the metal chamber of the van as we sped toward whatever fate awaited us.