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.

The van jerked to a halt, throwing me against Allison's shoulder. My damaged face screamed in protest as I bumped against the metal floor. Through the fog of pain and whatever drugs they'd given us, I registered the sudden stillness—we'd arrived somewhere.

"End of the line, princesses," Madelyn's voice cut through the darkness, gleeful and sharp as broken glass.

The van doors swung open with a metallic groan. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of concrete dust and damp earth. I blinked against the sudden brightness of industrial floodlights illuminating what looked like a construction site.

"Where are we?" Allison whispered, her voice tight with fear as she cradled her belly protectively.

"Rivera Tower," Madelyn announced proudly, as if unveiling her masterpiece. "Your husband's latest project. Well, it was supposed to be his masterpiece before you ruined everything."

Two men in dark clothing appeared at the van's opening. They didn't speak as they hauled us out—first Allison, then me. My legs buckled beneath me as soon as my feet hit the uneven ground. One of the men caught me roughly by the arm, his fingers digging into my flesh.

"Careful with her face," Madelyn said mockingly. "We wouldn't want to damage our precious heiress any more than necessary. Not yet, anyway."

I forced myself to look around. We were in what appeared to be the skeleton of a massive skyscraper—just concrete pillars and floors, with exposed rebar and unfinished walls. Wind whistled through the open framework, creating an eerie howling sound that seemed to mimic my own inner terror.

"This way," Madelyn commanded, gesturing toward what looked like a construction elevator—little more than a metal cage with an exposed motor.

The men shoved us inside. I stumbled, catching myself against the cold metal railing as the elevator lurched upward with a grinding noise. Allison pressed against my side, her breathing rapid and shallow.

"Priscilla," she whispered, her lips close to my ear. "When we get to the top, I'll create a distraction. You run."

"No," I hissed back. "She has a gun. We both stay calm and look for an opportunity."

The elevator climbed higher, each floor bringing us closer to whatever fate Madelyn had planned. Through the open sides, I could see the Brooklyn skyline growing smaller beneath us, lights twinkling like distant stars.

"Almost there," Madelyn sang, her voice eerily calm now. "Just a few more floors to our special place."

When the elevator finally stopped, we were at the very top—a flat, unfinished rooftop that stretched out like a concrete plain under the night sky. The wind hit us with full force, whipping my hair across my burned face and causing Allison to stumble.

"Walk," Madelyn ordered, poking me in the back with what felt like a gun barrel.

We moved across the open space, our footsteps echoing on the hollow concrete. The city spread out below us like a glittering tapestry, beautiful and distant. So far from help. So far from safety.

"Stop here," Madelyn commanded when we reached the edge.

I looked down and felt my stomach drop. Below us was a massive foundation pit, where workers had been pouring concrete for the building's base. The wet concrete gleamed gray and viscous in the floodlights, a thick liquid that would swallow anything dropped into it.

"Perfect spot, don't you think?" Madelyn circled around us, her torn wedding dress billowing in the wind. "No one will ever find you once you're buried in the foundation. Just another couple of construction accidents."

"Please," Allison begged, her hands still cradling her belly. "Not my baby. Take me if you want, but let my sister and my baby go."

Madelyn laughed, the sound almost lost in the howling wind. "So noble. That's what I love about you Rogers women—always so willing to sacrifice yourselves for each other."

She pulled something from her pocket—zip ties. With practiced efficiency, she bound our wrists behind our backs, the plastic cutting into my skin.

"Now," she said, pulling out her phone. "Time for the main event."

She held up the phone, tapping the screen to initiate a video call. The wind whipped around us as we stood at the edge, teetering on the precipice of death.

"Say hello to your husband," Madelyn said as the call connected.

Dominic's face appeared on the screen, his expression shifting from confusion to horror as he took in the scene—me with my scarred face, Allison with her pregnant belly, both of us dangling over certain death.

"Priscilla! Allison!" His voice was thin with panic. "What's going on?"

"Choose, darling," Madelyn purred into the phone. "Your real family—me—or these two. Come alone, or I drop them both into the concrete."

The phone trembled in her hand as she held it out over the edge, showing Dominic exactly how close we were to falling.

"Choose wisely," she whispered. "And choose quickly."