The strange word sent a violent shiver straight down Arla's spine.

She didn't have a single second to analyze what it meant. The raw survival instinct screaming in her brain took over. She threw her weight against the heavy wooden door, shoving it open and launching herself into the hallway.

The door slammed shut behind her with a massive thud. The heavy wood completely severed the dangerous, suffocating aura of the man inside.

Arla didn't stop. She ran barefoot down the long corridor, her torn black dress whipping around her legs. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her frantic footsteps.

She hit the elevator bank and slammed her palm against the down button, hitting it over and over until her hand ached.

The polished steel doors slid open. She threw herself inside and hit the lobby button, pressing her back against the cold metal wall. Her chest heaved, her lungs burning as she dragged in oxygen.

The elevator dropped. The sudden weightlessness made her stomach lurch, violently triggering the memory of falling into the dark void of death. She bit down hard on her lower lip. She bit until the sharp, metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her tongue.

The pain grounded her. She was alive.

The doors dinged open at the lobby. Arla kept her head down, her dark hair falling over her face to block the curious stare of the night-shift bellhop. She practically sprinted through the revolving glass doors.

The Manhattan thunderstorm was brutal. Sheets of freezing rain instantly soaked through her thin dress, plastering the fabric to her skin.

She ran to the curb and waved frantically at a yellow cab splashing through the puddles. It screeched to a halt. Arla ripped the back door open and threw herself onto the worn leather seat.

She dug into her small clutch, pulling out three crumpled, soaking wet hundred-dollar bills. She threw them over the plastic divider.

"Sargent Manor. Long Island. Now," she yelled.

The tires spun, slipping on the wet asphalt before catching traction. The cab shot forward into the dark, rainy night.

Back in the penthouse suite, the faint scent of vanilla-the woman's scent-was already fading into the cold air.

Ewald's heavy, ragged breathing slowly leveled out. The violent, blood-red haze that had clouded his vision finally receded, leaving behind a terrifying, icy clarity.

He looked down at his wrists. The metal cuffs had sliced deep into his skin, exposing raw tissue. He didn't feel the pain. What he felt was the absolute absence of the PTSD flashback. He had survived an episode without the heavy sedatives.

The image of the woman's terrified, doe-like eyes burned into the back of his skull.

Ewald took a slow, deep breath. His jaw locked tight. The muscles in his massive arms bunched and expanded.

A sickening screech of twisting metal filled the room.

With a brutal yank, the thick metal of the handcuffs screeched and deformed, and he tore the entire heavy headboard fixture directly from the wooden frame. Solid oak splintered and shattered across the floor.

He dragged the broken piece of wood and the attached handcuffs across the room, stopping at his discarded suit jacket on the sofa. He reached into the inner pocket and pulled out a heavy, black encrypted communicator.

He pressed his thumb to the screen. It glowed a toxic green. He hit a single button, opening a highly classified line.

It connected instantly.

"Boss," his special assistant, Jalen, answered. His voice was tight with anxiety.

Ewald ignored the blood dripping from his wrists onto the expensive rug. His voice was a flat, dead void.

"Lock down every security camera in this hotel. Cut their external network access immediately."

"Understood. What's the target?"

"A woman just ran out of my suite. I want her entire identity, background, and current location in ten minutes."

Jalen paused for a fraction of a second, picking up on the rare, dangerous shift in his boss's tone. "Consider it done."

Ewald killed the connection. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the rain-soaked streets of the city he practically owned.

A flash of lightning illuminated the harsh, unforgiving angles of his face.

He looked down. Half-buried in the thick fibers of the rug was a single pearl earring.

Ewald bent down and picked it up. He closed his large fist around it, squeezing until the sharp metal backing dug painfully into his palm.

His jaw clenched again. He didn't care who she was or where she was running. She was never getting out of his sight again.

Arla sat in the back of the speeding cab, her hands locked together in her lap. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her own palms that the skin threatened to break.

Outside the window, the wealthy estates of Long Island blurred past in the heavy rain. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm.

The image of Caden's small, bruised body lying on the basement floor played on a loop behind her eyelids.

She snatched her phone from her clutch and tapped the screen. Eleven-fifteen.

The timeline was exact. In her previous life, this was the exact hour Blair had used the excuse of "checking his homework" to drag Caden up to the old attic storage room.

The cab slammed on its brakes, jerking Arla forward as it stopped outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Sargent estate.

Arla didn't wait for the driver to speak. She shoved the door open and ran straight into the torrential downpour.

She ignored the brightly lit main entrance. Her feet knew the hidden paths of this prison perfectly. She slipped behind the perfectly manicured hedges, moving silently toward the servant's entrance on the west wing.

Years of walking on eggshells in this house had taught her how to survive. She pressed her back against the wet brick wall, waiting for the security guard's flashlight beam to sweep past, before darting forward.

She pushed the heavy side door. It was unlocked, just as she remembered.

But tonight, she had a head start. Clinton was still in the city, whatever his "meetings" really were. Blair thought she had hours before anyone would discover her. That was the key—Blair was acting alone right now, following whatever twisted ritual she'd developed, confident that no one would interrupt her.

Not tonight. Not ever again.

Arla slipped into the dark, narrow hallway. Water dripped from her ruined dress, leaving small puddles on the hardwood floor.

She bent down, unbuckling her high heels and pulling them off. She gripped them in one hand. Her bare feet hit the freezing marble of the main corridor. She moved like a ghost, completely silent as she climbed the back staircase to the second floor.

At the end of the main hall, the double doors to her adoptive parents' master suite were shut tight.

Arla slowed her breathing. She crept toward the sharp corner that led to the old attic storage room.

The heavy oak door was cracked open just an inch. A sickly, yellow light spilled out onto the hallway carpet.

Arla pressed her shoulder against the wall. Her heart stopped beating. Her ears strained, picking up a sound that made her stomach violently twist.

It was a tiny, muffled whimper. The sound of a small animal in agonizing pain.

The blood in Arla's veins turned to absolute ice. Her pupils dilated, consuming her irises in pure, murderous rage.

She slid closer to the gap in the door and looked inside.

The storage room was choked with dust and broken furniture. Shoved into the furthest corner was Caden.

He was wearing his thin cotton pajamas. His tiny knees were pulled up to his chest. His small hands were clamped tightly over his own mouth to muffle his cries, his massive eyes overflowing with terrified tears.

Standing over him, with her back to the door, was Blair Sargent. She wore a pristine silk robe.

Pinched between Blair's perfectly manicured fingers was a five-inch, heavy metal sewing needle. It glinted under the harsh bulb.

Blair smiled. It was a twisted, sick expression. She took a step closer to the cornered child.

"Why are you even in this house?" Blair hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "You don't even know who your father is. You're just a little bastard."

Caden shook violently. His hands gripped the fabric of his pajama shirt, pulling it tight as he shook his head, too terrified to make a sound.

Blair's hand shot out. She grabbed the collar of Caden's shirt and violently yanked him forward.

Caden let out a sharp gasp as his bare knees slammed hard against the rough wooden floorboards.

Blair raised the massive needle high in the air, aiming the sharp point directly at the soft flesh of Caden's arm. Her eyes lit up with a sadistic thrill.

Outside the door, the last thread of Arla's sanity snapped. The hatred from her past life boiled over into a physical, burning need to destroy.

She turned her head. Resting on the hallway console table was a heavy, solid silver letter opener.

Arla dropped her shoes and grabbed the solid silver letter opener. The freezing metal grounded her, sending a shock of absolute, lethal clarity straight to her brain.

She took a half-step back, raised her right leg, and kicked the heavy oak door with every ounce of strength in her body.

The door exploded inward with a deafening crash, slamming against the wall so hard that plaster dust rained down from the ceiling.

Inside the room, Blair jumped, letting out a shriek. Her hand, holding the needle, froze mid-air.

Blair whipped her head around, her eyes wide with shock, trying to see who was standing in the dark hallway.

She never got the chance.

Arla launched herself into the room like a rabid animal. The air rushed out of her lungs as she closed the distance in a split second.

She grabbed Blair's raised wrist and twisted it violently outward.

Blair screamed in pain. Her fingers went numb, and the heavy sewing needle clattered harmlessly onto the wooden floorboards.

In the dim light, Arla saw Blair's face-the shock, the arrogance, the cruelty. The memory of the basement flooded Arla's vision.

Arla didn't say a single word. She flipped the silver letter opener in her hand, gripping it like a dagger.

She bypassed the lethal arteries of the neck. Instead, she slammed the blade against Blair's right cheek and dragged it down hard.

The sharp silver sliced cleanly through Blair's flawless skin. Thick, dark blood instantly welled up and spilled down her jaw.

It took a full second for the agonizing pain to register in Blair's brain. When it did, she let out a horrific, ear-piercing scream that sounded like a slaughtered pig.

Blair collapsed to the floor, her hands flying to her face. Blood poured through her fingers, dripping onto her silk robe.

Arla kicked the sewing needle hard, sending it flying deep under a heavy wooden dresser where no one would find it.

She spun around and dropped to her knees, grabbing Caden from the corner and pulling him tight against her chest.

She wrapped her arms and legs around his small, shaking body, acting as a human shield. She felt his heart hammering against her ribs, and her eyes instantly filled with hot tears.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. The screams had woken the entire wing. Servants and security guards rushed toward the open door, their flashlights cutting through the dark.

The overhead hallway lights flicked on with a loud click, flooding the bloody storage room with harsh, blinding light.

The second the light hit her, Arla blinked away the cold, murderous rage in her eyes. She replaced it with sheer, unadulterated panic.

She opened her hand. The bloody letter opener hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter. She forced her hands to shake violently.

The butler gasped loudly, his face draining of all color. "Dear God! Miss Blair!" he cried out, stumbling forward. It took him a full, panicked second to regain his composure. He forced himself to stand straight, clapping his hands with a harsh, trembling sound.

Arla buried her face in Caden's hair and let out a terrified sob. "Oh my god! Blair? Is that you?!"

She scrambled backward, pointing a trembling finger at the bloody blade on the floor. "I heard Caden screaming!" she sobbed, her whole body shaking violently. "I ran in and saw a dark figure standing over him with something sharp in their hand! I didn't know who it was in the dark! I just reacted to protect my baby!"

Blair rolled on the floor, choking on her own screams. Hearing Arla's words, she pointed a bloody finger at her. "You crazy bitch! You did this on purpose!"

The security guards froze, unsure of who to grab.

Arla kept her face hidden against Caden's shoulder, her own shoulders heaving as if she were hyperventilating.

But beneath the cover of her son's hair, her lips curved into a dark, vicious smile.

"Get the medical kit! Now! And nobody calls the police until Mr. Sargent is informed! We handle this internally!" the butler shouted.

Blair shrieked at the word 'internally,' but the tearing pain in her cheek cut her words off into a wet gurgle.

Arla slowly lifted her head. Tears streamed down her pale face. She looked at the butler with wide, innocent eyes.

"Let me help stop the bleeding," Arla whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "I know basic first aid."