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.

One week later. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was glowing under the New York night sky.

Bridget stepped out of a black Lincoln Town Car. She wore a sharp, black haute couture gown that left her shoulders bare. The dress was armor. In her hand, she held a heavy platinum invitation card. It belonged to her mother, but tonight, Bridget was representing the Rostova family.

The moment her heels hit the red carpet, the paparazzi went wild. Camera flashes exploded in her face like lightning. Reporters shouted questions about her broken engagement and her illegitimate status.

Bridget kept her spine perfectly straight. She did not look at the cameras. She walked up the massive stone steps and entered the grand ballroom.

The noise in the room dropped the second she walked in. The wives of the old money families turned their heads. Their eyes dragged up and down Bridget's dress with obvious disgust. They whispered behind their champagne flutes.

Bridget ignored the burning in her stomach. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and walked directly toward a group of men near the center exhibit. They were the key investors in her mother's company.

She smiled, her voice steady and professional, as she began to discuss the quarterly projections, desperately trying to project stability.

Just as the conversation was flowing, a voice dripped with poison behind her.

"Looking for a new sugar daddy to fund your mother's failing business, Bridget?"

Bridget turned. David stood there, holding a drink, a nasty smirk on his face.

The investors looked uncomfortable. They quickly made excuses and scattered, leaving Bridget alone with him.

"Stay away from me, David," Bridget said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Unless you want another drink in your face."

"You don't have the guts," David sneered.

Before Bridget could reply, Cheyenne walked up. She was holding the arm of a powerful state senator. She looked at Bridget with fake shock.

"Bridget! How did you sneak past security? This is an exclusive event."

Bridget held up the platinum invitation. "I walked through the front door. Representing my mother's company."

Cheyenne laughed, a high, irritating sound. She leaned in close to Bridget's ear.

"A bastard will always be a bastard. You belong in the gutter."

Bridget did not flinch. She smiled coldly. "At least I don't have to pour wine for men in VIP rooms just to get their attention."

Cheyenne's face turned stark white. She knew exactly what Bridget was talking about. Pure hatred flashed in her eyes. She turned her head and made a very quick, subtle eye contact with David.

David gave a microscopic nod. He raised his glass. "Let's just enjoy the party."

Bridget felt sick looking at them. She turned around and walked toward the open balcony doors at the edge of the ballroom to get some fresh air.

As she turned, a waiter carrying a large silver tray walked directly across her path. The tray temporarily blocked her view of her own hand.

In that split second, David reached out. His finger flicked over the rim of Bridget's champagne flute. A tiny amount of white powder fell into the golden liquid and dissolved instantly.

Bridget stepped onto the dark balcony. The cold wind hit her bare shoulders. She raised the glass to her lips and drank the champagne, desperate to calm her racing heart.

On the second floor of the museum, standing in the shadows of a private viewing box, Damond watched the entire scene.

His eyes were locked on Bridget. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

His assistant, Miles, stepped up behind him. "Sir, the waiter just confirmed. David slipped something into her drink."

Damond looked down at the glass in his own hand. The crystal shattered with a loud crack. Blood dripped from his palm, but he did not seem to feel it.

"Lock down every side exit in this building," Damond ordered. His voice was the sound of a nightmare. "No one gets out."

He dropped the broken glass and walked toward the stairs.