Bridget unlocked the door to the Upper East Side penthouse she shared with her mother. She kicked off her heels, her feet aching. She just wanted to pour a glass of wine and sleep for twelve hours.

The motion-sensor lights in the living room flicked on. Bridget stopped dead in her tracks.

Sitting on the white leather sofa was a man in a sharp gray suit. He turned his head. His face shared the same sharp jawline as hers, but his eyes were entirely cold. It was Hall Vincent. Her biological father.

Bridget's body went completely rigid.

"How did you get past the security downstairs?"

Hall picked up a crystal whiskey glass from the coffee table. He swirled the amber liquid slowly.

"With enough money, there isn't a door in New York that stays closed to me."

Bridget dropped her bag and walked toward the intercom on the wall.

"I am calling building security."

"Save your breath," Hall said sharply. "The property manager works for me now. I am here to tell you something that affects the survival of this family."

Bridget stopped, her hand hovering over the button. She turned to face him, her nails digging into her palms.

"Get out of my house. You have no right to be here."

Hall stood up. He placed the crystal glass down with a heavy thud. He walked toward her, his face twisted in anger.

"I heard what you did at the restaurant today. Throwing water on David? Canceling the engagement? You are acting like a stupid child."

Bridget's eyes widened. "You had me followed?"

"I have to protect the Vincent interests. I need David's family to secure the key technology licensing from Jiawei Bio in the upcoming merger. You will go to him tomorrow, apologize, and put that ring back on your finger."

Bile rose in Bridget's throat. She looked at the man who had abandoned her and her mother twenty years ago.

"You threw us away like garbage. You don't get to walk in here and sell me to fix your business mistakes."

Hall's face turned purple. He raised his hand high, ready to strike her across the face.

Bridget did not blink. She lifted her chin, staring right into his eyes.

"Hit me. The photos of my bruised face will be on the front page of the Wall Street Journal tomorrow morning."

Hall's hand froze in the air. His jaw twitched. He slowly lowered his arm, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

"If you do as you are told, I might consider officially acknowledging you during the winter social season. You won't be a bastard anymore."

"Keep your dirty last name. I don't want it."

Hall lost the last bit of his patience. He stepped directly into her personal space.

"If you don't fix this with David, I will launch a hostile takeover of your mother's company by Friday. I will strip her of everything she has built."

Bridget's pupils contracted violently. Her hands curled into tight fists. Her mother's company was Cherrie's entire life.

Before Bridget could speak, a terrible, tearing sound echoed from the dark hallway. It was a violent, wet cough.

The master bedroom door opened. Cherrie Rostova walked out. She wore a silk robe. Her face was as pale as paper, but her eyes were sharp like broken glass. She walked straight past Hall and stood in front of Bridget, shielding her daughter with her thin body.

Cherrie looked at her ex-husband. Her hands smoothed down the front of her robe, a gesture she always made when she was in pain. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black panic button.

"I pressed this three minutes ago, Hall."

Hall frowned, his arrogant posture slipping slightly. "Cherrie, I am doing this for her own good."

"You are doing this because you are short fifty million dollars for your buyout," Cherrie said coldly.

The front door of the penthouse burst open. Two massive private security guards rushed into the living room.

Cherrie pointed a shaking finger at Hall.

"Throw this trespasser out."

Hall adjusted his suit jacket. He glared at Cherrie, then at Bridget.

"You will both regret this."

He turned and walked out, followed closely by the guards. The heavy door slammed shut. The apartment fell into a dead silence.

Bridget let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned to her mother.

"Mom, what did he mean about the hostile takeover? Is the company-"

Cherrie's knees suddenly buckled. She collapsed forward, her hands flying to her mouth. A horrific coughing fit ripped through her chest.

Bridget rushed forward, catching her mother's shoulders. Cherrie pulled her hands away from her mouth, gasping for air.

Bridget looked down. Smeared across Cherrie's pale fingers was thick, bright red blood.

Bridget's brain went completely blank. The sight of the red blood on her mother's skin made her stomach drop. She held onto Cherrie's shaking shoulders, supporting her weight.

Cherrie quickly hid her hands behind her back. She swallowed hard, forcing the metallic taste down her throat. She grabbed a tissue from the side table and wiped the corner of her mouth.

Bridget's hands were shaking as she reached for her phone in her pocket.

"I am calling 911."

Cherrie's hand shot out. Her grip on Bridget's wrist was shockingly strong. Her nails dug into Bridget's skin.

"No ambulances. No hospitals. Do not alert the media."

Bridget felt tears burning the back of her eyes.

"Mom, you are coughing up blood! How long have you been hiding this? This is not bronchitis."

Cherrie took a deep, rattling breath. She forced her posture to straighten, smoothing the wrinkles on her silk robe.

"It is nothing. I have been working too many late nights. A blood vessel ruptured in my throat. That is all."

"I don't believe you," Bridget said, her voice cracking. "I am calling Dr. Miller to come here right now."

Cherrie's eyes turned completely cold.

"Do you want the company's stock to crash tomorrow morning? The board is already looking for an excuse to force me out. If they smell blood, we lose everything."

The mention of the stock price froze Bridget in place. She knew how ruthless the board of directors was. If they thought Cherrie was weak, they would tear her apart.

Cherrie pushed Bridget's hands away. She walked slowly into the bathroom and locked the door.

Bridget stood in the hallway. She heard the shower turn on, the loud rush of water masking the muffled sounds of her mother coughing again. Bridget leaned her head against the wall, feeling entirely helpless.

Ten minutes later, Cherrie walked out. She had washed her face and applied a light layer of makeup. The ruthless CEO mask was firmly back in place.

She walked into the living room and sat down.

"Tell me exactly what happened with David."

Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat. She explained the hotel room and the restaurant, leaving out the part about Damond.

Cherrie nodded slowly. "Good. He is a weak man. He does not belong in this family."

Cherrie stood up and walked to her heavy oak desk. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents. She handed them to Bridget.

"These are the authorization papers for the core trust fund. I need you to go to the lawyer's office tomorrow morning and sign them. You will take over the voting rights."

Bridget looked at the papers. Her chest tightened. It felt like her mother was preparing to die. She stared into Cherrie's eyes, searching for the truth.

Cherrie avoided her gaze. She walked to the entryway table where the mail was sorted. She picked up a plain manila envelope.

"The courier delivered this to the wrong address today. Drop it off on your way to the lawyer tomorrow."

Bridget took the envelope. The recipient name read 'Jane Roe'. The address was a private concierge clinic on the Upper East Side.

Bridget shoved the envelope into her bag, her mind racing.

"Go to sleep, Bridget."

Cherrie took her coffee cup, walked into her home office, and locked the door behind her.

Bridget went to her bedroom. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The image of the blood on her mother's hands mixed with the memory of Damond's dark gray eyes. Her anxiety was suffocating.

At 2:00 AM, Bridget threw off the covers. She walked silently down the hall. A thin line of light spilled from under the office door.

She pressed her ear against the cold wood.

Inside, Cherrie was speaking on the phone. Her voice was a harsh whisper.

"I don't care what the physical toll of this experimental therapy is. My body can't hold out much longer, and we have to trigger the key man clause before the end of the month."

Bridget's heart smashed against her ribs. She backed away from the door, her hand covering her mouth to stop a sob. She did not dare open the door. If she broke her mother's wall of denial, Cherrie might shatter completely.

Bridget ran back to her room. She grabbed her phone and typed the address from the manila envelope into the search bar.

The results loaded. It was an ultra-private oncology clinic. They only treated billionaires and politicians.

A terrifying realization hit her. Jane Roe did not exist. It was a fake name. The medical file belonged to her mother.

Bridget gripped the phone until her knuckles turned white. Tomorrow, she was going to that clinic. She was going to find out exactly what was killing her mother.

The morning air was sharp and cold. Bridget wore a large pair of black sunglasses and a heavy trench coat as she walked into the private oncology clinic on the Upper East Side. There was no sign outside the building.

The interior looked like a luxury hotel lobby. The silence in the room was heavy and depressing. The receptionist behind the marble desk looked up, her eyes scanning Bridget with professional suspicion.

Bridget pulled the manila envelope from her bag. She placed it on the desk.

"I am Ms. Roe's new assistant. The courier sent her file to the wrong address. I am returning it."

The nurse took the envelope. Her face showed no emotion. She scanned the barcode on the back.

"Thank you for returning it."

Bridget leaned forward slightly, forcing a polite smile.

"I need to arrange her travel schedule. Could you tell me when Dr. Evans needs her back for her next specialized treatment session?"

The nurse's eyes instantly turned to ice.

"Under the HIPAA privacy act, I cannot confirm or deny any patient information. Have a good day, ma'am."

Bridget's stomach sank. She knew pushing harder would only cause security to throw her out. She turned away in frustration and walked toward the elevator bank to leave.

Just as her finger pressed the down button, a soft chime echoed through the lobby. The doors of the VIP private elevator slid open.

Two men in custom-tailored suits stepped out. They were speaking in low voices.

Bridget's breath caught in her throat. It was Damond Oneill. Beside him was his business partner, Miles.

Panic flooded Bridget's veins. She spun around and stepped behind a massive potted palm tree in the corner of the hallway, pressing her back against the wall.

Damond did not look up. He was staring at a medical report in his hands, his brow furrowed.

Miles lowered his voice, but the hallway was so quiet Bridget could hear every word.

"You are spending too much time focusing on that Vincent bastard, Damond. It is bad for business."

Hearing herself called a bastard made Bridget's chest burn. She held her breath, her fingers digging into the bark of the palm tree.

"Cheyenne is the legitimate heir," Miles continued. "She is the one we need for the merger. That lost kitten you picked up is just going to bring you messy family drama."

Damond let out a cold, sharp laugh. He handed the medical report to Miles. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

"The Vincent family's internal war is our opening, and she is the critical variable. You don't need to understand my entire design, Miles. Just execute the orders."

The word hit Bridget like a physical strike to the stomach. The blood drained from her face. Her hands started to shake.

"Good," Miles sighed in relief. "Just don't get attached to the prey."

Damond did not answer. He looked up, his gray eyes sweeping across the lobby. His gaze stopped for exactly one second on the hem of Bridget's trench coat, which was visible behind the plant.

Bridget stopped breathing. She waited for him to call her out, to humiliate her.

But Damond just looked away. He pushed open the glass doors and walked out to the waiting black Maybach.

Bridget stepped out from behind the tree. Her entire body felt like it was made of ice. The tiny, stupid spark of hope she had felt in his penthouse was dead. He was exactly what everyone said he was: a cold-blooded monster who only saw people as tools.

Anger, hot and violent, replaced the coldness in her veins. She would never let a man control her fate again.

She walked back toward the reception desk. The nurse was turned away, answering a phone call. Bridget leaned over the marble counter and stared at the nurse's computer screen. The daily schedule was open.

She memorized the name next to the 10:00 AM slot for 'Jane Roe'. Dr. Evans.

Bridget walked out of the clinic. She pulled out her phone and searched for Dr. Evans. The first result loaded instantly. Dr. Richard Evans. Director of Experimental Cellular Therapies and Highly Classified Medical Procedures. She was undergoing an aggressive, secretive medical treatment. The vague, terrifying words blurred on the screen.

Bridget leaned her back against the brick wall of the building. She pressed her hand hard against her collarbone, trying to stop the physical pain in her chest. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and ran down her cheeks.

She wiped the tears away aggressively. She could not fall apart. Her mother was dying, her father was trying to steal their company, and the most powerful man in New York was using her as a pawn.

Bridget's eyes hardened. She would have to become a monster to survive them all.